




wufMwiiiit 




llgSPlSl 


Md|I! : 

































































































































































































































































mm 


- x ^ 

* o, ✓ 

i « ^ ' f o 

w ' 


»-> ,0- -q. 

t <V S s _ '/, c- 



0 X 

A Tj, ■ / " 

y%C'v. ; v v ,v ^ ^ 

r-. ^ i. 

* .0 H o’ AA ^ * « I ' 

i >'V ax>o * 

r > - - a «V ' y v . * . 

A. '••>* % “ 

?J> C° W * C ^ncv ' * ,!* *'’ '■'*’- •» ° 

* , v <s A' ! 'St y -y j\ 

,0 c. * o 4 -r, 

X yf- y tx. ■ - ., o' c#* 

V * 7 TX'c. 0 - s .,,'*o h«’* / 

'. * , /;W^ V . v ~ H,l * 

“• J mSk'- 

^ vlp?" ** wipr* ^ v y 

_ s ^ A "V%; ^ 




\V u '-> 

? 

, O* A "■ 3 t '*u\\ + 

•ft \ -i 

Kc a'* **• yb> * v- v 

^ >* .'‘I t*: : 

x° °y ", # ■ 


v*-. ..X‘-■■ - 

* ^ .Wa v : *. -A * €fg$ •- \ > 




❖A ^ 













0 £. C* V 

4 . / % ** v \ \ 

* h * ^ , o “ c , q ' ‘ • • ' 

vv r * f + .-V s -> 

0 ^ ^ L’ v°* 

Vl > ^- 0 ^ 81 

•^. <A * * '-</ AV 



0 V ' 


o N c 


'»»' Si; ^ > v 

V' '> 81 ^ 

V ». lO < 5 , « 

V ,aV ' , \"= 

C> 

-V* ^ 

0 „x- ^ 0 X oNc <. ^ 

% °0 G 0 ' • «* 5 J^ ^ ^ **■,*?& \- ^ 

y rS = • ; r^; ; ^ v* ; " — 





A, -T* ' 

> ■*- A 

* qP /. 

’ V# ^ 


X 0 °O 


,v ^ 


*' , 0 -' o » , M 0 3 ^ 

^ ^ V v % ' * 0 ' 

/A A ,\\- •» -, 


a i 


f *+ 


',\u s ' s 

,V 0, * r t s 0 - V ^ Y 

N. s » « » -/> 


. ^ xV-W/ 



-f “O 

+ 




-; •' aV = S .'• * ,V - 5 ^. , V —.^- * 'V ' j ‘* - t£' o. V? <?• 1 

.-V °• 1 '■'** ~ 7 ''/ x ~' *V"'‘ V'■j^S,''' yi\ 'S° /^;^V •; 

■ i^ * p/m,:';': 'oo' sm*'* -y = .v 

4 -r-, * * \° ^<. * o A ' vy ^WT^ - * * 

^ ^ <sy/7/ Mr " • y- vSr’ > Op 'Vf. ,,. '£//;;«f J - ^ 

> N V *, '■.-(' ' 4 o c* > m; ' « A’ ct*, *- ‘'' \ (\0 

<* ’CL ^ % O’ Cj * it > 0, x cP' ^ - o <VJ 

V /,V,.., ^ *"''/ ><• '*%**- ^ 

V - 5, * . va ' ytfffl’lShk. / T^>, . r> o ,Tk- <v O ■*<• v, ' ^ .i, 

V" ;J^‘- 51 - ■ 

' * • a\ A Ul., \ 

C » _i-s4 




: 



OO 1 

- v = 

> - et -. * 




>o q, 

■» y ^aNSA^' > X 1 ^ q * 

* s ,o q, * -. m o 5 x ^ v q-. * 

0 > s s”7, % y> 

A ’ S y yp f .<? s» * 

x^ » . A, a G<’ c>. 4 <<G r 0“ 

: <%> ,^ v • / ,v. '■• * ^ # 

i ^%. 71 

, 0 ^ 


v*o, ^ ■•' n^* s s '*?> \> <t' 1< ' , y *^> 

® ^ ^ * Mst 

r<* 0 «=3 C^ •* O *■ r ' ; 5 S* C 6 »**' \ 

s A y o«x^ \ ^ 

^ ,/ A* V 'J % °o r°" , c !l C ^ ^ A -r °o 

^ tfmy-', n.«« :».. -X; ^ v 

a: A-*. iP®- 

»- > ^ -g . ^ ^ y ^AV v vS 3 ^ 

f > V-‘' « \1 ■ fA' l- ' * 

*’ a0' o, o’ A 

V- «. ^ 0 / > y v > ' - 7 // \>' a ' ' 0 

A * 

z ^ ^ 


X 0 ^. 


^ u * * ■$' 0 N C . C, ' ' * * ' ^ A A 

O A k i " < J . 


:Mk\ %/ * 4 ^ 

- . i I 0 

- a oV ^ . 

A y* t' 1 




'*0 $ 





rv o 


A O ' 

^c»o X 


\V -S'. 


‘q/r:.; ,c * v> Aq > 

J J A o\‘ 



> *. \ -0 
v ^' %. *1.1* s- 

fc, aV * 

* * 

<* .ST ^ . ° 

<X x -y v> 

•<f. ' ,,,, ’ aV v «' ' ' % ^ 
a " •*■ f 


0 - ^ 4 > a n c <x y » « s V. 1 . . % 0 * x „ s c ^ ^ * • ' 

. 0 * C 0 * A A^ V* * % q. ,0^ c 0 N 0 * 

V j , .r *- # ., , ^ v -v y **V A 

4 y ! A-' A U * , 0 C. 




,A> , "7\-A ,, “ 

, A v ofc '' "»■>*, y -f 1 . 

/> A' * .rA^^ 3 A r q. "* 1 'ap *A^ 

* <\ ■• . v*r >Y/ ^ •/ 


y XJOJ- a o 
, V *»"° 5 \* a 

r * Cy V ° 

« -**_ .❖, . y q, aV *■ 

O '>'. (7 


<* . H 1 o ft “> s A X 













V'° 


^ * VJ ° V ^ -TN \ _^. -/ ~7o t " v ' J >, v'O * * ' * V-) r\*' 

*• **' k £ - * v " 4' ^ a\ * JFfflTfeC + 0 ^L v :^ ^ ~o 

\> «.' ° 0 / 

sN 





**' A * X *' ■ ■ * -o 

v *> c^sv v ^ tL ^ v v -t <j> (*y v 

%, * ') s o 5 x ^ v e* » 

V * ^ «> 







• v' '* C- V X * ' * 0 



'JV v^ N 






ct- * K » -* oV 


-/• a' 




\ >-* w J - VL r 

'»*•>' . I , '^f. / 0 » V * ,0 

0^ ‘ s 

' «N*“ 




•e, A* - OSS'- X A .'.;V •' - A*V-*<’**-' + 

© Jiiuw/Ii ^ «\v ^ 







G '*WS-'W- %, -4' 






o 

v 

o 0 X 



4 >- 

, ■*- ■ * 




'K- «X 

V «-'*°^ <) > .0 V *'lv*/* CV v- «A*o, 

%. # .'tttf. % /; jSte't ^ * 






°0 

' s'V >* ^ s v> 





■ "o 









kV *■ 


\> . ^ * o , •> *" A s * ’ * ■* 

--^' ^ W / /Jfe' W 


-V' 




♦ ®TX A>* 


' .o- 






,v V ’ 

> «.' < * 0 ^ > v* »'*"»/ > 

^ ^ 'o . t- <o e* « 

/ Vd? % 

' A ■.;V 5 -'Vc««.rv'-'> A . .°v-‘*. 0 /'V'--'- 



^ J 8 v 

*-%; . v • • t 
- % .# * * v 












(3/)„ y/ 

_ 'SS? /// : '/ /, ■/// // //// ■ 


/// V/' 



r h e 



JOHN TALLIS A- COMPANY LONDON ft NfW YORK 

































































































THE 


AMERICAN IN EUROPE: 


BEING 


“ (guesses" uni “ Calculations” on |lten and Utanners; 


MADE DURING A TOUR 

THROUGH THE MOST IMPORTANT PORTIONS OF EUROPE. 



HENRY 


BY 

/ 

CLAY CROCKETT. 





PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY 

THE LONDON PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

LONDON AND NEW YORK. 

[j Pro], 


T 








I THE LIBRARYf 
OF CONGRESS 

WASHINGTON 


/ 























































































































































































CHAPTER I. 


I WAS raised on the weather side of the old 
Alleghanies, and first saw the light about forty 
years ago: I will, not confess to more. I was a 
phenomenon at Hale College, before my four first 
lustres passed, and have done a pretty good thing 
in the general line since then, without much 
troubling the classics; so that, having dollars and 
time at command, I determined to make “tracks” 
for the old Continent, in order to see how they 
carried on their “fixins” there. 

I have, in my time, hunted the bee, the 
bison, and the buffalo. The reader will excuse 


the alliteration; it may be an unconscious mark of genius. I have almost gone to the 
length of “ whipping my weight in wild catsbut a sufficient number could not be found, 
they having taken flight when I first resolved upon it at a great ’coon hunt, which we held 

A 





















2 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


north-west of the Delaware; so I gave up the point. So far a3 the Castalian fountain 
went, and all concerning it, I drained it as dry as the creeks of the Susquehanna are when 
the sun is vertical, and committed myself in verses of forty-horse power, addressed to Miss 
Jem. (for Jemima) Booty, daughter of Methusalem Booty, of Old Salem, which, I am 
told, created great havoc in her heart; but of this I never took advantage. As I have said, 
I am (round about) forty years of age, clear in the eye, brown in the face, which is tanned 
by the sun of every clime, aquiline in the nose; 1 stand six foot one in my stockings, am 
rather 1 ugly ’ about the arm and hand, and have smoked pipes with every tribe from the 
Cat to the Pawnee Indians. 

1 have drank sherry-coblers in the Broadway, no end of cocktail and mint-juleps up the 
Hudson, quarrelled with half-breeds on the St. Lawrence, and once tried a winter on the 
cod-banks of Newfoundland. I meant to have speculated at Labrador, but found that the 
humidity of the place did not u convene” to me 11 no how,” so I declined it. 

I struck out for the prairies, where I have killed mocassin snakes, and strangled 
gigantic cobras. I might have been a great naturalist; but whenever I wanted to make a 
“notch” about anything, I found that I had whittled my pencils away, and my stock of 
paper had gone to supply me with wadding. Finding that I had lived fast, and had 
exhausted the novelties of the new world, I resolved to try the old, and see what there was 
to be seen before coming home to be made president. So, on the 12th May, 18—, I sailed in 

the-, Captain-, for Liverpool. She was a noble ship of the first class of “ liners,” 

and her commander was as fine a fellow as ever trod plank; but they both (captain and 
ship) went down in the equinox of September, 18—, and I need say no more on that 
head. 

Liverpool struck me, as we went up the noble Mersey, by its mighty ranges of docks, 
its intricate forest of masts, its immense masses of warehouses. Everywhere arose the 
sounds of labour, and the bustle of business gave life and animation to all around. The 
town rises from the Mersey side by a gentle ascent, and its extreme boundary from the 
river may be said to reach from the village of Walton to Everton, and thence to Edge- 
Hill, beneath which the vast railway tunnel is bored. The Exchange and other buildings 
pleased me very much, as well from the compactness as from the elegance of the whole. 
St. George’s Hall, a fine and stately building, then just completed, delighted me most. It 
occupies, as nearly as possible, the centre of a vast area, known as the Old Haymarket. 
Once there was a lunatic asylum on the site, which was changed into a barracks, that, in 
turn, gave way to this fine temple of the muses. The vast frontage of the railway gives 
relief to the space. 

I spent but little time there, however, as I was anxious to be in France with all conve¬ 
nient speed. A day served me for a scramble over the Cheshire coast, and for a turn 
through the rapidly rising town of Birkenhead, which, with its new docks and store¬ 
houses, threatens to make with Liverpool a division of trade. Soon wearied with all this, 
I hastened from thence back to Liverpool, and the same evening took my place by the 









TIJF. LONDON l 1 HINTING AND PUBLISHING COM PAN 






















































































































Lou Ion: (for die propnetorsj E T. Brain Sr C? 88, Fleet S 

































































































































































































































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


3 


railway for London, and off we went at a speed that, in a few hours, set me down at 
Euston Square. 

It was a wonderfully beautiful panorama through which I rapidly ran. Town, city, 
and hamlet, village, farm, and cottage, with rustic steeples peeping forth far over the 
woodlands in the pleasant distances. There were noble mansions too, and stately woods 
and parks, where bounding deer rushed past in all the enjoyment of their freedom. Corn 
and pasture land, and broad meadows, all betokening plenty; but, as compared to the plains 
and forests of the Western world, made no more than the well-laid-out grounds of a 
wealthy country gentleman would be, as compared to the undulating scenery I passed 
through. Having engaged a cab, with no small difficulty as to fare, I was safely installed 
at Long’s Hotel. 

Before arriving in London, however, I had caught a glimpse of that thick and murky 
mass which for ever hangs above the city, denoting undeniably its whereabout, and looming 
like a giant’s head was the noble dome of St. Paul’s. With a sort of feverish haste I 
dashed through the parks of the west end, which I greatly admired—with much to find 
fault with in detail. I was pleased, on the whole, with the gigantic mass of busy life that 
pervaded every street and alley of the crammed city. I visited the exhibitions and places 
of amusement, and was certainly gratified with the fine acting at one or two theatres, and 
with the magnificent music of the opera. 

I visited the Abbey and St. Paul’s, and felt ashamed for the “coot” of a beadle, who 
let me into each of God’s temples at less than theatre price. I may say, that they were w r ell 
worth the money; in fact, they were the cheapest exhibitions in London. From the Guildhall, 
where I saw the giants, and thought how much men are like children in their foibles, I 
turned towards London Bridge, in order to make ray “progress” up the river. They have 
fine black-beetles of steamers, which tear along and vanish under the bridges, and which 
certainly burst now and then, as they do on the Ohio or the Mississippi. 

I was immensely struck with the idea of building the House of Lords behind the corner 
of a vast bridge, which makes the other structure look dwarfish. To my thinking, there 
is no comparison between it and Somerset House. They ought to have made an elevation 
of stone, thirty or forty feet high, as a basement, and then have erected their superstructure 
upon that. It will, doubtless, look better when the bridge is taken down; as, in fact, it 
has itself threatened to commit suicide, if they do not relieve its old bones. Returning by 
Whitehall, I saw everything at sixes and sevens, for they were then building a new 
frontage. I admired the Horse Guards; but Nelson’s Column caught my attention, more 
especially the coil of rope, which has a miraculous resemblance to the devil’s tail; but the 
crowning magnificence of the whole was the classic beauty of the three domes on the top of 
the National Gallery! It is a question if the world can show anything so unique. I had 
visited most of these places alone, though I might have had those with me, had I chosen, 
who would have acted as willing guides. 

I had letters of business and introduction to deliver, which I now attended to; and 


4 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


having despatched two notes to two several friends, who were going to accompany me in 
my continental perambulations, remained at home in the evening to receive them. 

The first came in time for dinner. He was a fine-grown, stopping fellow of about two 
or three and thirty, daring to absurdity, and as full of devilment as an Albany colt. He 
and I had shot bears before this at the “ Salt-licks;” but for some years we had not met, 
as he had been in Egypt, and finally resident in London for the last two years. His 
features w r ere frank, bold, and regular; his head of hair Apollonian; but his frame was so 
angular, that no coat ever sat so gracefully upon him as the hunting blanket he used to 
wear. His name was Ewart Dewbank, and he came from Connecticut. 

“ Henry Clay Crockett,” said he to me, as he shook my hand; “ I am glad to see you.” 

“ And I am glad to see you, Dewbank,” said I, in turn, shaking him as heartily by the 
hand; “ sit down—put your feet under the mahogany. I can’t promise you roast veni¬ 
son -” 

“ Such as we used to broil, after I’d brought it to the tent in my blanket, many a 
time,” interrupted my friend; “ nothing like broiling slices upon the embers-” 

“And falling to with a hunter’s appetite, eh?” said I, and w r e both laughed heartily. 
“ But where’s Ralph Potter?” I asked; “ he ought to have been here by this.” 

“ He is here,” said a voice as the door opened, and a tall, remarkably handsome young 
man, with wild dark eyes, pale cheeks, and hair tossed over a white forehead, entered the 
room. We both started up to greet him, for he had been dear to us when we were away 
in the great heart of the mighty forest, thousands of miles from home. There was an 
affecting history connected with him, which had always most deeply affected us; and 
though we were not particularly “ soft,” yet we were (I mean Dewbank and myself) both 
of us men, and had men’s feelings too. Of Ralph’s history I may give the reader some 
insight into at a future time. After the first welcome was over, w T e sat down to as good a 
dinner as Long could put upon the table; and as soon as this was cleared away, we began 
to talk over our campaign. 

“ When do you propose to start ?” asked Dewbank. 

“ To-morrow,” I replied, “ by the steamer for Boulogne. I have taken three places.” 

“ That will suit me,” said Ralph; “ I have no arrangements to make.” 

“ And I,” added Ewart, “have made mine already.” 

“ That will do also,” I said; “ and now mix your grog: I have some prime Mononga- 
hela in my case”—and I put it out—“ and here are some cigars which w r ere ripened in the 
sun of Cuba;” and down we sat as cozy as it was possible for men to be. 

We had a wonderful “talk,” as the Indians say; and in its discursive course it em¬ 
braced almost every topic, from the price of pot-ashes to the disposal of an empire, and 
making it so many republics. We spoke of our old adventures by field and flood, in the 
prairie or the mountain, in the forest and over the lake, and we remembered a few old 
companions who had been side by side with us in many a fray, when the war-whoop of the 
wild tribes rang fearfully in the night air. 




THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


5 


11 You ask about Tom Trevor,” said Ewart, in reply to a question I had put. u Ah! 
he was a strange fish certainly. There always was a certain singularity about Tom, which 
I never could well make out; but I can now tell you all about him. Did you ever hear 
how Tom did the devil?” 

u No,” we both replied. 

“ Well, I’ll tell it you; fill your glasses, and light a fresh cigar;” and having done this, 
and drawn our chairs closer, he began the story. 

^om ^rcbor bft tbc SDcbtl! 

11 You remember,” began Dewbank, u my meeting with you at New York, after we had 
been for several months absent at the last hunting excursion, which was just over; and 
that I brought with me a good-looking, thin-faced, mischievous, witty fellow, whom I 
introduced as Tom Trevor, a portrait-painter from old England—quite a metropolitan, in 
fact.” 

u Yes,” I replied, u I do. I shall never forget his devotion to cigars and gin-sling. I 
thought I was myself a pretty good hand at both the one and the other; but the roof of 
Tom’s mouth seemed plated, and his throat was like that of a crane.” 

u With a stomach of gutta perclia quality,” added Ewart. “ Well, you recollect too, 
that he was about the most amusing fellow you ever came near. Tom was one of the best 
hands at a comic song, a recitation, at imitating a saw, the squeaking of a pig, a cat on the 
house-top, with a dash of ventriloquism, I ever knew.” 

u Yes,” said I, 11 these qualifications struck me at once.” 

“ After Tom had completed some commissions which brought him to America, and 
made a panorama of the St. Lawrence, which is now lost in the sceneries of one of the 
London minor theatres, he returned to England, and settled here. Tom was, to my 
thinking, a very idle sort of dog, after all, and would lounge on a sofa with his amber- 
tipped hookah in his mouth, dreaming of Michael Angelo, or Correggio, by the hour, or 
distract himself about the black sparkling eyes of his cousin Lose Richardson, as pretty a 
girl, too, as ever tripped with a tiny fairy foot across the ground. This, however, you 
may be sure, was not very productive; and while Tom’s studio was more like an old 
lumber-room than anything else, his out-goings began to exceed his in-comings consider¬ 
ably, and Tom began to deplore the sacrifice which he was making of his genius to an 
ungrateful world. 

“ Tom had an old maiden aunt, living in the country with her niece Rose, upon whom 
he was almost totally dependent, and, to do her justice, the old lady was very liberal; but 
as it was expected that Tom would do something for himself, it was found that, as fiom 
quarter to quarter there was nothing but his aunt’s allowance to depend upon, he grew 
more and more straitened in his means, after having, like the ‘Dick Swiveller’ of Charles 
Dickens, nearly shut himself out of every available street and passage leading to his 

lodgings. 

B 


6 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


“Tom loved his cousin Bose dearly, and lived much upon love, and the dear girl 
returned this love in an equal ratio; but she also depended upon her aunt, so that their 
prospects were not particularly bright. Still Tom’s wonderful flow of spirits did not 
altogether leave him; and seeing that portrait-painting was at a discount, Tom took to 
writing sonnets to his lady, and vaudevilles for an operatic theatre not far from his resi¬ 
dence. The latter paid better than the former; but Tom could not keep up the supply 
according to the demand, so that his occasional guinea did not avail him much. 

“ Now, this portion of Tom’s history I have from his own lips,” continued Dewbank, 
emptying and refilling his cup,—“ so that, as far as that goes, I vouch for the fact; but 
you will think with me, that there must be a considerable mistake in it upon the whole, 
though Tom religiously believes it, but cannot himself account for a portion of it that 
puzzled me. But of that anon. 

“ Tom painted occasionally, though he had no order of any consequence to fulfil; but 
he amused himself now and then with his brushes and colours, as if to relieve the monotony 
of being idle. lie had upon his easel a fancy sketch (I suspected then it was his cousin 
Bose’s likeness), which was drawn with amazing force and beauty; but it was in a very 
incomplete state, and it was a matter of uncertainty whether it would ever be finished, 
as Tom, under the pressure of his ill luck, grew moodier, idler, and finally more despairing, 
in spite of his almost unconquerable good humour. Day by day saw Tom getting lower 
and lower. His rent was unpaid for several months, duns were unceasingly at his door, 
and at last he received peremptory orders from his landlady to leave the rooms in which 
he had become domesticated. 

“ This finished the cup of Tom’s bitterness, for he did not know what to do. Already 
did destitution stare him in the face; and the few friends he had, the companions of his 
idle or more dissipated moments, could give him no aid, however willing they might be. 

“ Tom, on this particular day, was seated in a chair, gazing grimly at the few embers 
dying in the grate, his empty pipe was in his hand, and a pewter pot, thrown from its per¬ 
pendicular, lying on the ground, shoAved it had just been emptied; his palette and brushes, 
all useless, were flung into another corner. It was a picture, Tom said, of utter heart¬ 
broken misery. He did not dare to apply to his aunt, for his conscience smote him that 
he had not behaved entirely as well as he ought to have done,' and that some portions of 
the supplies he received from her did not al\\ r ays find their way by a legitimate channel. 
Tom was liberal, fond of good cheer, and thoughtless; but he A\ r as the soul of honour. He 
would starve rather than make known his desperate condition. 

“ Tom, as I have said, was gazing wistfully into the grate, thinking of his cousin and 
of his condition, when, drawing his hand distractedly over his brow, he muttered, 1 The 
devil take it—AA’liat am I to do ? ’ 

“ Tom is certain that he not only used this expletive; but AA’ent the length of using 
the said gentleman’s name in a very \\ T icked manner, A\ hen suddenly he heard a smart rap 
at his door. 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


7 


u It was only one knock, but of that imperious kind, Tom describes it, that it brought 
his heart at once to his mouth. 

u 1 It’s all over with me now,’ thought Tom ; ‘ they are coming to sell me up ;’ and he 
cast his eyes around the room, when his glance fell upon the half-finished picture of his 
cousin Bose, and he felt, as his eyes became blinded with tears, as if everything good in 
life was leaving him. 

“ 1 Come in,’ said Tom desperately, after a pause, and gulping down a sob with great 
resolution, when the door opened, and a queer-looking little old gentleman in black entered. 

“ Tom declared, that as he looked upon the stranger by the dismal light of the dull 
morning, he felt a thrill of awe creeping over him, which he was utterly unable to repress. 
Perhaps it arose from a sudden chill, attendant upon the opening of the door; perhaps— 
but conjecture is useless. There was the visitor, and Tom having recovered from his first 
surprise, found that it was necessary to address him. 

“ ‘ May I venture to ask your business with me ?’ said Tom. 

“‘Are you Tom Trevor?’ asked his visitor, in a tone so peculiarly discordant as to 
make Tom start. 

“ ‘ Mr. Trevor, at your—service, sir,’ replied Tom, a little distantly. 

“ ‘ And the idlest fellow in London,’ grumbled the other, ‘ if one may judge from 
appearances.’ 

“ ‘ Why,’ said Tom, a little nettled, ‘ if men will not give me orders to execute, there 
can’t be much done. As for the remainder,’ he added, shrugging his shoulders, while a 
spice of mischief still lurked in his eye, ‘ my upholsterer has been too busy at court lately 
to attend to me ; but after-’ 

“ ‘ That will do, Tom,’ interrupted the other; ‘ and now to business.’ 

“ ‘ Now to business,’ echoed Tom, pointing his visitor to a chair. 

“ ‘ Well, Tom,’ began the other, twitching his shrivelled and hooked nose unpleasantly, 
‘ you don’t appear to be very thriving. 

“ ‘ Don’t I?’ retorted Tom; ‘ bless you, things are very deceptive sometimes.’ 

“ ‘ Humph! ’ growled the other; ‘ well, perhaps, in that case you can settle a few of 
these bills for me,’ and the old gentleman unfolded a roll, and scattered sundry ugly- 
looking documents upon the table. 

“ Tom, to his dismay, found that all his creditors appeared to be concentrated into one 
—the person of his visitor—and with a sort of haze gathering over his eyes, he endea¬ 
voured to make out the countenance of this stranger; which, however, by its wonderful 
mobility, utterly defied his skill. It changed and twisted as if a cloud of smoke were 
passing over it. 

“ ‘ Who the devil are you, sir?’ demanded Tom, snappishly. 

“ ‘ Be quiet, Tom, be quiet,’ said the other, tapping his nose. ‘ You can’t oblige me at 
present, can you?’ he added, pointing to the bills, and rolling them up, as if he had anti¬ 
cipated the answer. 



8 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


u ‘No,’ replied Tom, with a sigh; ‘I cannot.’ 

“ ‘ Well,’ said the old chap, with a diy sort of laugh, { I’m pretty rich, very patient, 
good-natured, and so on, and I’ll wait-’ 

u 1 I'm much obliged to you, I’m sure,’ said Tom, rising, while a lively feeling of grati¬ 
tude moved him ; 1 1 wish I could return the obligation.’ 

“ 1 On one condition, Tom—or we’ll say, one or two,’ continued the amiable old gen¬ 
tleman. 

u 1 Condition!’ muttered Tom, changing colour. 

“ 1 1 want a picture,’ rejoined the other, 1 a magnificent picture!’ 

“ 1 Ah! ’ said Tom, glancing towards the one on his easel, 1 1 have something begun 
there; but it will take such a time to finish.’ 

u 1 What is it?’ said the old gentleman, rising; 1 something or other stupid, I dare say. 
Ah ! Tom, Tom, you’re an idle dog;’ and drawing away the cloth which was flung over it, 
he gazed with evident delight upon the incomplete sketch, which now possessed new charms 
to the artist. 

“ ‘ Now, I’ll tell you what, Tom,’ he rejoined; ‘ it’s a capital likeness of Hose, I know. 
D’ye hear? I want that picture finished by a certain day.’ 

“ ‘ That! ’ ejaculated Tom ; and then added aside, 1 What the deuce can he know about 
Dose?’ 

“ 1 Yes, that, and none other; and what’s more, it must be exhibited at the Academy. 
I’ll insure you the prize.’ 

“ ‘ You! ’ and Tom opened his eyes to their widest. 

“ 1 Bother! ’ was the unceremonious response. 1 You shall have five hundred guineas 
for it. You shall marry your cousin Rose. You shall-’ 

“ ‘ Five hundred Roses! marry cousin guineas!’ muttered Tom, who was so utterly 
confounded, that he did not know what he was saying. 

u 1 You shall do all this,’ persisted the queer dark gentleman, playing with his nose, 
and lifting up the angles of his lips after the most purely Mephistophilic manner possible. 
1 I will befriend you with these bills, and insure your success, if you will sign this little 
bond,’ and he slily showed Tom a bit of parchment. 

“ ‘ Bond! ’ muttered Tom. ‘ He’s some old usurer or other, and thinks to make money 
out of me. Egad! ’ he added, 1 it would serve him right to sign it, and see how savage he’ll 
be when he knows lie’s done himself.’ 

“ ‘ Well, Tom, what do you say?’ asked the old gentleman, holding out a pen and the 
bond to him. 

“ ‘ Come, lie’s liberal with time,’ thought Tom, as he glanced upon it again, and saw 
thirty years written very legibly upon it; and so saying, Avithout another word, Tom took 
the pen and scratched his name at the foot. The deed Avas done, as Tom said.” 

At this juncture DeAvbank ceased his narration for the moment, and aa e took the oppor- 




THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


9 


tunity of replenishing the glasses, ancl relighting fresh cigars. Ralph Potter seemed to 
enjoy Ewart’s story hugely, which I was glad to see, for generally he was taciturn and 
grave. I partly knew the cause, and did not remark upon his mannerism. When we 
were again in full sail under a cloud of smoke and the steam of hot grog, after a little 
desultory chat, Dewbank resumed. 

“ I have already told you,” began the full-blooded Yankee, “that the sequel to this 
tale puzzled Tom himself in no little degree. Tom states, that he plucked up courage, 
worked night and day at his picture, and sent to the Academy a gem of art. 

u The picture w r as a most beautiful one. It was the portrait, in half length, of Rose, 
clad in a sort of fancy costume, which was eminently graceful, and set off her lovely 
laughing face to full advantage. 

“ To Tom’s astonishment it did cany away the prize, and this caused such a sensation, 
that Tom’s name was placed in the first rank of artists. The picture was sold for five 
hundred guineas, and though Tom could not discover the purchaser, he had no great doubt 
himself as to who it was; and began to think of the queer-looking old gentleman with 
something of fear, while gratitude mingled largely in this feeling. 

“ One day after Tom had received his five hundred guineas, and had written to his 
aunt and Rose to this effect; though it is true he felt a pang at the heart in having parted 
with it, for, as his work progressed under his hand, he began to love it almost as much as 
he did his cousin; and had already made another attempt to try another sketch, but 
never could please himself by it, and now sat looking on his dark canvas, thinking of 
many things—Rose and the queer gentleman among the others—a light touch on the 
shoulder roused him; and turning round, he saw a female standing before him, veiled 
almost from head to foot. 

11 1 don’t know whether Tom was not more startled at the sight of this second visitor 
than he was of his first; but Tom was gallant enough when a lady was in the case. 
Making a polite bow, he requested the fair stranger to be seated, and begged to be 
honoured with her commands; but, to his astonishment, a suppressed tittering was all the 
reply he received. 

“ As Tom looked still closer, he began to fancy that he recognised the garments she 
wore. A dim idea haunted him that their form, style, manner, and so on, were familiar 
to him. 

u 1 Madam,’ said Tom, 1 may I beg to ask-’ 

“ ( Do you know me now?’ asked a sweet laughing voice, as with two fair arms she 
flung aside the veil, and there, in a pretty masquerading dress, stood his lovely cousin 

Rose. 

« Although Tom started with surprise and pleasure, he soon recovered himself, so that 
catching the blushing girl in his arms, he first kissed her warm lips, and then shook hands 
with her. A few words from Rose gave Tom to know that his aunt had been the pur- 

C 



10 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


chaser of the perplexing picture, which she then possessed; that they had both come up 
to town together, in order to see how Tom’s rising fame might be forwarded. In fine, 
from one thing to another, the time passed away pleasantly till Tom was reminded that he 
had an order to execute which was not yet touched, and, enraged with himself, he began 
to think that the old gentleman was right in calling him a sad, idle dog. It was then 
Tom swore a great vow, that no difficulty should, for the future, mar his exertions; but he 
almost fancied that he heard the sounds of mocking laughter greeting him as he concluded. 
A shade of fear and displeasure crossed Tom’s face; but the bright and beautiful creature 
before him dissipated by a word, and in a moment, both his annoyance and his doubt. 

“ I need not detail to you,” continued Dewbank, u all that passed during this interview, 
as it began to take a most interesting turn. The £ good understanding,’ as diplomatists 
have it, existing between them was heightened, and they parted with a mutual under¬ 
standing that they were shortly to be—married! and what was more, Tom’s aunt, the 
good old soul, had bestirred herself in the matter, was going to come down handsomely, 
was, in fact, looking out for a house, goods, and chattels, for the newly-married pair—that 
were to be; and soon after Rose had concluded her recital, Tom Trevor and his cousin 
parted. 

u Now, gentlemen,” continued the relater, u the mysterious part of the transaction 
begins in earnest. By some unaccountable singularity, Tom found himself sitting in the 
same room, moodily pondering over the dim shadow of a bond that he had signed thirty 
years hack ! He was in possession of name and wealth, a wife, family, and all that,—and 
yet around him there was no sign of any one existing. 

11 1 Devil take me! ’ muttered Tom, ‘ if I’m not puzzled all out.’ 

II Knock! It came to the door, short, quick, imperative, the fac simile of one he had 
heard thirty years ago. Why was Tom afraid? He had fulfilled his conditions, and the 
old gentleman’s pledge had been strictly adhered to. Yet, why was he afraid ? Tom had 
kept no copy of the bond. He tiusted to ‘ honour;’ besides, thirty years looks a long 
time, when it lies right straight before you. 

“ 1 Come in,’ said Tom; and once more did the old gentleman enter, looking more 
queer, more grim, more strange than ever. 

“ 1 How do you do, Tom ? ’ asked he; 1 glad to see you looking so well,’ and he tweaked 
his nose as before. 

“ 1 Quite well, thank’e,’ replied Tom. 1 1 must say that I’m surprised I never saw you 
after the morning you first called upon me. I assure you I often wished it.’ 

“ £ It was of no consequence—none at all, Tom. I’ve called now,’ added he, 1 to settle 
that little matter which lies between us, if it’s convenient;’ and he darted upon Tom such a 
look as made him quake in his shoes. 

Ul Business!’ echoed Tom. 1 Ah! I know. Well, it was all right—perfectly right;’ 
and Tom fancied he caught sight of the old man’s meaning. 

III I’m glad to hear that—very,’ returned the other; 1 therefore I’ll just trouble you to 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


11 


read this over,’ and this time he fairly unfolded out the bond before Tom’s eyes, all in 
regular order, with a thumping big seal attached, and Tom’s bold signature opposite. 

“ ‘ What the deuce can it mean?’ thought Tom ; ‘ what the plague is it? What the 
5 hut here he stopped short all at once, as if he had done something of a dread¬ 
fully evil kind, and was only struck by suddenly remembering it. 

11 He glanced upon the bond. His eyes dilated, and became riveted upon it. lie 
turned pale, and trembled in every limb. 

u ‘ What—what—can this mean?’ stammered Tom, clasping his forehead, and trying 
to think. 

u ‘ It’s all correct,’ said the other blandly; ‘ quite right. I’ve aided and served you for 
thirty years. The time is up—you’re mine ! ’ The murder was out. Tom had sold him¬ 
self to-; but we wont mention names. 

“ ‘ You finished your picture,’ continued the disagreeable old fellow, ‘ and from being 
the idlest vagabond in London, I made you industrious, and industry made you talented. 
You sold the picture of pretty Hose—you gained wealth. Thirty years! think of that, 
sir! and now, come, for I’ve got another party waiting.’ 

“ ‘ Wait a moment,’ said Tom; ‘ don’t be in such a confounded hurry, I beg.’ 

“ ‘Nonsense! I’ve no time to lose. Halloo! what now?’ shouted the old slyboots. 

“ This exclamation was drawn out of the queer gentleman, by seeing an exulting and 
insolent smile spread over Tom’s lately dismayed face. 

“ ‘ Not so fast, old chap,’ said Tom ; ‘ you’ve done yourself nicely. Look there! tell 
me that date! ’ and he pointed to it with a chuckle. 

“ The old fellow could not blush ,♦ but he did something like it, for, as he looked at the 
bond, through his dark and sombre cheeks there seemed to steal a red angry glow, that 
made his face appear like a dun-coloured, lurid transparency, with a fire inside of it. He 
read the date. It was the twenty-ninth of February ! 

“ ‘ That was leap-year,’ cried Tom; ‘ now what think you of that ? Eh! ’ and he 
laughed. ‘ According to the thirtieth anniversary of that date, I’ve to live for a hundred 
and twenty years. So pack up, you mischievous old villain, and begone!’ and Tom 
pointed to the door. 

“ If the old chap was not the ‘ father of lies’ himself, he now looked marvellously like him. 

“ ‘ But Tom,’ he began, ‘ honour , you know-’. 

u ‘ Bother!’ said Tom; ‘ vanish ! begone! you’re caught in your own trap.’ 

u The form seemed to dilate and fill the room, and as it retrograded to the door, a grin 
of rage and baffled hatred spread over the angry countenance that made Tom’s flesh creep. 
Away he went with a howl and a roar, as if he had tom away the lintels and posts with 
him in his flight. 

« When Tom told me of this,” continued Dewbank, “ I said plum ply that he had been 
dreaming! ‘But there’s the picture,’ said he, ‘and here’s my wife,’ pointing to both, 

‘ and I should say that they were sufficient evidence of the fact.’ 





12 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


11 The devil was your own indolence, Tom,” said I, 11 and the good angel of Leap-year 
was your love for Rose; but Tom could not be altogether convinced that there was not 
something in it. However, he found that he had not lost the thirty years he had dreamed 
over, for he had yet to use them, and if he lives,” concluded Dewbank, “ I’ll be bound he 
does so to good purpose. Thomas Trevor, of the Royal Academy, is no longer an idle 
man, but industrious, happy, married, and well to do.” 

We laughed heartily over this escapade, of Tom’s, when the relation was over, and 
once more the conversation was changed. 

At this moment, when we were becoming jocular, and—I assume, as a matter of course 
—witty, the sounds of a street organ, one upon a new construction, and at that time a 
novelty, struck upon the ear, and the trumpet stop, at the very instant, rising and swelling 
upon the air, died away with a cadence inexpressibly beautiful. 

I saw that Dewbank’s glance was rivetted upon the face of Ralph; and I also, looking 
in that direction, was struck with the sudden change in the youth’s countenance. 

II Ralph, my boy,” said I kindly to him, u what’s the matter with you?” 

u Nothing,” said he hurriedly, lifting up his head suddenly, like one startled out of a 
reverie, and drawing his hand across his brow; “ the melody which has just ended reminded 
me of—of something. It is forgotten.” 

Now I cannot say that I was ever much given to the sentimental vein; but I had an 
idea what it was to have a peculiarly sensitive organization, and had before observed how 
great the power of music is upon others; so thinking for a moment, I remembered that this 
fine organ, elaborately constructed, was playing a selection of those beautiful, and sadly 
sweet airs from Bellini’s wonderful opera of Sonnambula. These struck his particular 
chord of feeling. Ralph’s heart, I knew, was in a tumult of voluptuous pain. 

“ Music affects Ralph sometimes you know,” observed Dewbank to me, as if to give 
him time to recover his former composed manner. 

u It does most wonderfully,” said Ralph, as if disdaining to hide his emotions; u and 
as you know it, I will not disguise from you that those airs have the power of moving me 
to tears at times. No magic of language can be more pathetic than the harmonious mad¬ 
ness of Elvino, when, in his despair, he recounts the depth and fervour of his love.” 

“ Talking of that,” said I, willing to change the subject; “ I fancy that the director of 
the opera here must have made a smart hit of it when he got Jenny Lind on his books.” 

11 Right,” exclaimed Ralph readily, and once more his old cheerfulness returned. I 
saw that he was mounted on his hobby, and knew that he would go on agreeably enough 
for the next hour. “ I think you have never seen or heard her?” said he to me. 

“ No,” I replied; “ but I mean to have that pleasure.” 

11 Ah! ” and he drew a long breath; u it is a pleasure to hear her miraculous voice, and 
to witness the childlike faith, the almost superhuman energy, with which she enters into 
the spirit of her part. She is in herself one of those brilliant instances of the triumph of 
natural gifts, and the most persevering industry over every obstacle, whether the contempt 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE, 


13 


shown by managers and masters for her juvenile looks and feeble voice at the outset, which 
during her childhood lost its sweetness and flexibility, or the combination of envious rivals, 
she conquered them all, and broke through every opposition by the pure force of genius. 
The divine spirit of musical gifts asserted its mastery, and she became queen of the art. 
Rich, honoured, and renowned, she is said to preserve the severe simplicity of her humble 
birth and unartificial northern nature. In this respect alone she is a rara avis , for, generally 
speaking, the stars of the opera have eccentric orbits, and are easily led to forget their own 
proper path in that overweening and flattered conceit which might turn steadier brains than 
theirs. The old opera, what with its internecine warfare and its new rival, was falling off 
day by day, and things looked black enough. Jenny Lind appeared in May, 1847, with 
all the prestige of a name blown far and wide by the press, and the vast theatre was 
filled to the roof. This was the first of a series that never lost attraction. She never 
failed, never was inferior, and indeed rarely the same, which may be paradoxical; but 
repeatedly seeing her in the same part never gave one the idea of weariness. 

11 You describe her powers most admirably in their effect, my dear Ralph,” said Dew- 
bank ; u like most artists, I imagine she is greater in some things than others.” 

“ True,” rejoined Ralph, “ in the Vivaudiere, for instance, she is light, playful, and 
fascinating. Her by-play with the old serjeant is delicious—the ‘Rataplan’ fires one with 
enthusiasm, and I shall never forget the effect of that scene, where, in her splendid dress, 
and in the splendid hall, her turbulent but w r arm-hearted old companions burst in, the 
singing-lesson was a climax, not to be surpassed in its way.” 

u I have seen her highly spoken of in the papers,” said I, “ when playing the part of 
1 Alice,’ in the opera of 1 Robert the Devil /’” 

11 And with good reason,” rejoined Ralph, his eyes absolutely kindling, and his features 
growing flushed and radiant; “she is there like an angel of a lower grade, standing 
between hell and heaven. Her earthliness for a moment succumbs to the powers of dark¬ 
ness, as the weird music, and the awful words of Bertram ring with ponderous tonings 
on the unhallowed air. Clinging to the cross, the symbol of her hopes, her clear, pure, 
and marvellous voice, full of prayerful intreaty, of fear, of defiance, and despair, exhibits 
not only her powers in a transcendant degree, but at once convinces the hearers of the 
gigantic genius of Meyerbeer, whose majestic music, which finds fitting vent for human and 
superhuman attributes, fascinates, delights, and even affrights us. The genius of Weber, 
in that grand and sombre Der Frieschutz y and that of Mozart, in his brilliant, enchanting, 
and terrible Don Giovanni , goes not beyond Meyerbeer. To the art, grace, and tender¬ 
ness of the Italian school, he had added all the spiritual and unearthly qualities of the 
German, and of these three chef d’ouvres, I know not which to admire most.” 

a Jt i s really astonishing how so young a creature, gifted as she may be with the power 
of song,” I observed, “ should have mastered these immense difficulties of the dramatic art 
which gives vigour, expression, and life to music, and become thus an aitist so consummate 
as to strike the world with wonder. I should wish her,” I added, “ to pay us a transat- 

D 


14 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


lantic visit; slie would find that we possess as much appreciation in America for that which 
is beautiful in art, as either England, or any continental nation can show.” 

“ There can be no doubt upon that,” said Ewart, “ considering the patronage we have 
bestowed upon dramatic and musical art of a much inferior nature.” 

“ Perhaps she may imagine,” said Ralph slily, “ that a promiscuous encouragement of 
art in its inferior forms may be a feature of American taste, and conscious of her own 
powers would not wish to run the gauntlet.” 

I laughed at this sally, which I took in good part; but Dewbank, with a little of 
republican dignity, retorted—“ I deny your inference totally. The instances to the con¬ 
trary are self-evident, and whatever opposition some of them have met with have arisen 
from unworthy caballings among professionals themselves, whose envy have enlisted par¬ 
tisans on both sides, which have had no other effect than that of disturbing the harmony 
and good-will which should exist in a republic of art, as well,” added Dewbank, by way 
of an episodical climax, “ as in all other republics.” 

In the meantime the night was deepening, and our sense of enjoyment was heightened 
by the interest we felt in Ralph’s disquisition on this charming cantatrice; and by an easy 
transition, we spoke of art and artists of every kind, and from the “new” and the “old” 
world we drew subjects for fresh argument. 

The “ creature comforts” that surrounded us (to which Dewbank and myself were 
in a moderate way devoted to) heightened the joy of the hour. Ralph drank wine 
sparingly enough; but we two were old hands at transcendental devotions, and stuck 
steadily to our punch, while the delicious aroma of our cigars, mingling with the vapours 
of the faultless liquor, filled the room. 

At last Ralph, breaking the silence of a sudden pause that ensued, said to me, “ Have 
you marked down with any degree of precision the route you intend to take?” 

Now, as I have always enjoyed that little mystery which lies in taking a road leading 
one knows not where, and could enjoy with zest anything unusual, grotesque, romantic, 
picturesque, or even dangerous, that crossed my path, I do not like being exactly mathe¬ 
matical in chalking out every step and stage of such a journey as we had in contemplation. 
In that case one might as well stay at home, and travel through a road-book. 

_ m 

“ I guess, Ralph Potter,” I replied, “ that I ain’t going to jog-trot on from town to 
town as our old grandsires would have done, and know the inn, place, and prices, and what 
will happen a month beforehand. No, first for Boulogne, next for some intermediate 
places between there and Paris; when we arrive at Paris, we will there hold a grand 
council of progress. You will arm yourself with your sketch-book Ralph,” I added, “ and 
Dewbank and myself will take notes; as for pictures they’re things I much admire, but 
should be sorry to look upon one of my own make.” 

“ Very well,” began Dewbank, “ I don’t see anything to prevent this arrangement 
turning out a most excellent one. I, in the meantime, who have been on the continent 
before, will take charge of the travelling business. Leave the route, the conveyances, the 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


15 


navigation, the commissariat department, altogether to me, including the obtaining of pass¬ 
ports, custom-house, &c., and I will answer for it that all will go as smoothly as one of Sam 
Slick’s clocks.” 

“ Well,” said I, in turn, “ it appears that we are now in as fair a condition for starting 
as it is possible for three men to be; so let us have one parting glass, and each betake 
himself to rest, in order that we may meet at London Bridge in the morning.” This was 
done, and with a cordial “good night” we parted. 

It was as fine a morning as I have ever seen dawning in the east, when, having bun¬ 
dled my compact case of luggage into a cab, I was set down at London Bridge, and was 
proceeding to go on board the steam-boat that was hissing, and bubbling, and uttering 
half smothered shrieks, that seemed to be under water, when my attention was drawn to a 
group of men who were evidently in great commotion. Startled at this, for I could not at 
first make it out, I went nearer, and to my astonishment beheld the sledge-hammer arms 
of my athletic brother hunter, Dewbank, making significant motions in the air, and 
descending with peculiar effect upon the faces and ribs of some two or three burly porters, 
whose savage blasphemies, in addition to their smeared visages, completed a picture in 
which Hogarth would have delighted. The fellows fought stoutly, and swore still more 
so; but they had no chance with one who could wrestle with a bear. 

“ What on earth are you after now, Dewbank?” asked I, catching his arm. 

“ Why darn the critters,” was his answer, his eye catching mine, while a momentary 
pacification ensued, “ I had no sooner stepped down, than three or four made a plunge 
upon my plunder here,” pointing to his baggage; “ and this not being quite convenable to 
my disposition, I felt a little 1 riled,’ so I gave one rascal a gentle shake, and then I was 
obliged to thrash the three—look at them! ” 

I did so, and could not help laughing at the rueful aspect they presented. One had desired 
to carry a box to the “Havre” boat, another a portmanteau to the “Hull” steamer, a 
third his cloak and hat-box to a wicked-looking clipper starting off for Madeira, and Dew¬ 
bank himself on board the “Effendi,” a Mediterranean steamer, going on a six week’s 
pleasure cruise; and as they used violence, and were otherwise abusive, thinking to have a 
“ lark” with the “ Yankee,” I was not sorry to see them so nicely handled. 

Ralph Potter joined us at this juncture, and as Dewbank’s bold aspect, and unruffled 
good temper (for he fought laughing), made him a favourite all of a sudden, a few shillings 
bestowed upon the defeated porters healed their bruises again, and we went on board, 
leaving them grinning with composed comicality over their morning’s work. 

In half an hour we were threading our way down the noble river, and I was struck with 
the superb lading of commerce, home and foreign, that the multitudinous craft of every 
shape, and denomination, which surrounded us bore. Both the shores gave signs of trade 
and business. The shouts of men, the loading and unloading of cargoes, the boats and 
barges passing and repassing, vessels coming in, and otheis going out, the custom-house in 


16 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


the foreground, the steeples with St. Paul’s towering above, and the dingy mass of “still” 
and active life, constituted a scene that I never saw surpassed. 

We came to Greenwich, which I afterwards visited, and at the moment regretted that I 
had not first gone there. As this place is well known both at home and abroad, I shall 
not here enter into any description of a town I had not been to ; but its picturesque appear¬ 
ance pleased me in an extreme degree. 

We arrived at the Nore, and began to hoist a topsail or two to take advantage of a fine 
“ mackarel breeze” which blew over the stern; but as nothing on earth can equal a stern 
wind that rises into a gale in the charnel, except a slip of wind when you are in the Bay 
of Fundy, and making for the Gulph, so we soon found ourselves in the midst of as pretty 
a bit of wind and water as any mariner having a close-reefed topsail breeze, sent by a lap- 
land witch, can offer. 

After steaming about fourteen hours, through a most tempestuous sea, where we were in 
danger of foundering, we arrived at the harbour of Boulogne. I have dispatched my 
description of our short voyage, because I shall have to describe a short “ life at sea” at 
greater length, and upon a scale of greater magnitude. 

Dewbank, with characteristic coolness, had, during the first part of our passage, been 
smoking cigars on the deck. I found that Ralph, who may be called a bit of a sailor, and 
who loved the sound of the wind and the moan of the sea, had mounted into the “ gig” 
that hung from the “ davits” over the quarter ; and there, smoking his cigar, was lost in 
thoughts, which, from his nature, prone to enthusiasm and poetry, might, doubtless, have 
have had a touch of sublimity in them. I amused myself as long as I could in remarking 
upon the manner and appearance of those who surrounded me; but, as the gale came on, 
many went below to make themselves snug, and to call upon the steward, “ in the name of 
heaven,” for brandy and water. Some two or three, however, whose case was more des¬ 
perate, hung over the gangway, or settled their chins upon their hands, and did not seem 
to care one franc if any one had threatened to throw them overboard. Oh ! the prostrating 
agonies of sea-sickness! For my own part, I was, to use a common vulgarism, “ all 
right.” 

It was three in the morning when we lay alongide the quay, and a few faint lights 
here and there from the casements in the streets, showed me through the haze, the outlines of 
the town and harbour. It was as yet too early to land, or too late, which you will, as we 
were some hours behind time, and so making all fast, w r e were snug enough aboard, and 
as the deck was cleared, almost the whole of the passengers being now below in their 
berths, I had the whole of it to myself. 

Dewbank wrapped in his cloak, had flung himself some time ago under the lee of the 
gangway, and with a hall-smoked cigar still between his lips, the strong man slept as 
calmly as a child, while the more the wind blew, the softer and the deeper became his 
slumbers. 
























































































































































































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


17 


I felt anxious about Ralph, for I knew he had on one or two occasions suffered dread¬ 
fully from sea-sickness; but was satisfied to know that he had descended from his rocking- 
cradle, and was now an inmate of a comfortable cot. On going below to take a peep at 
him, I found that he was as fast as “ a ground-tier-butt.” 

I was a little wearied myself, and had as yet taken no rest; so, following the example 
which so many had set, I ordered the steward to brew me a glass of whisky toddy, real 
“ sma’ still,” as it proved to be. I drank it off at a draught. I then gathered my cloak 
around me, and flinging myself upon one of the settees in the cabin, in five minutes I was 
dreaming of mosquitoes, the lagunes of Florida, and alligators. Again I heard the Indian 
war-cry, and was in the midst of a desperate fight, till my sleep deepened, and I dreamed 
no more. A trampling on the deck, some three or four hours after, roused me up, and I 
saw Dewbank standing beside me yawning most fearfully, though it was broad day. 

Rejecting the offer of a number of strangely dressed women, who babbled, and screamed, 
and shouted incessantly to carry us and our luggage on shore, we exhibited our passports 
to the proper officers, left our “plunder” to be overhauled by the douanier , and following 
Dewbank, went on to a hotel whither he led us, and where it appears lie was tolerably well 
known. 

Sea-coast towns are not always remarkable for their elegance or cleanliness; and though 
the mackerel and herring fisheries of this port are very extensive, and such as might give 
one reason to expect a shore somewhat littery and untidy in its aspect, yet I was much 
struck by the light, clean, neat appearance of the whole. I was more particularly caught 
by the beauty of the females I saw, for among the prettiest young women I ever beheld, 
the shrimp girls of Boulogne may fairly be classed. Their neat and rather picturesque 
costumes, their light graceful carriage, plump rosy faces, bronzed by exposure to the sun, 
their ruddy smiling lips, disclosing white and faultless teeth, are speedily remarked, and 
are as soon appreciated, for this is a question on which no man will be likely to hold two 
opinions. 

The houses of the lower town, as it is called, are mostly coloured, and the windows 
being furnished with a sort of Venetian blind, have a light, clean appearance; and I found 
the steep street which leads to the port, (the latter of which bears the impress of Napoleon s 
hand, by whose orders it was greatly enlarged and improved,) full ot the animation and 
bustle of a second-rate seaport town, particularly when it has become a fashionable lesoit. 
Boulogne divides itself, as a matter of necessity, into two portions, the higher and the 
lower. The latter being on the shore, and, of course, connected with the business of the 
place, engrosses all its labour and its profits. The former is allotted to the habitations of 
the wealthier class, and houses of some pretensions to elegance are to be found among them. 

The population, as may be imagined, is of a very mixed character. The sharper, the 
gambler, the cheat, the defaulter, the bankrupt, the duellist, in all their infinite variety, are 
to be met with in the cafes , and at the table d'hotes , and the strange assemblage of outlawed 
men among which a visitor finds himself at times would move his wonder, were he not to 


18 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


remember that towns like Boulogne form a neutral ground, where the offenders against the 
civil laws of every country enjoys, to a certain extent, a sort of immunity. An indescribable 
convention protects these men from the consequence that their deeds or their circumstances 
have entailed upon them; and I fancied that I could trace, in the features of one or two, 
indications of atrocity and villany, which ought to have consigned them to a different 
destiny. 

The differences of national custom and manner struck me forcibly. The French cha¬ 
racter was unmistakable. Gay, lively, and laughing, the everlasting tide of people that 
seemed never to care for within-doors, was at once indicative enough of their volatile nature 
and disposition. A Frenchman’s life is a fete out of his house. A platform extending 
between the sea and the high and lower town offers a pleasant place of perambulation, 
and in clear weather the shores of England can be discerned. 

Dewbank and Ralph Potter did not seem to care so much for the novelty of what was seen 
and heard as I did. Boulogne is, doubtless, well known to the majority of English people, 
as the facilities offered by steam vessels, the narrowness of the channel, its reputation for 
salubrity, and its noble baths, which may rival with any in the world, together with num¬ 
berless other small advantages, make it a source of attraction to hundreds of visitors during 
the season, so that I cannot add to the stock of information already known. 

We visited the few public places there were, saw some very fine paintings and altar- 
pieces in the principal church, and was amused at the theatre, where an English company 
was performing a ferocious melodrama, evidently to the disgust of the inhabitants of the 
u haute ville.” I could not help smiling at the double significance of the marble column 
erected by Napoleon, which was commemorative of a failure. It has been assigned to 
perpetuate Louis the Eighteenth’s landing in France in 1814, when the wild flight of 
Napoleon was stopped, and his splendour began to be eclipsed. 

I was walking about with Dewbank the next day, taking a rapid survey of all that 
offered itself to my observation, when leaving the principal street, we passed along a 
narrow lane, where we saw a few u restaurants” and wine-shops of the lowest order, and 
where I beheld the worst feature that Boulogne could possibly offer, when I stopped sud¬ 
denly at a small dirty-looking house, that turned out to be a general lodging-place for a 
class who are not particularly attached to locations in the same spot for any length of time. 

Looking down through a small window which was open to the streets, my attention 
being called to it by the somewhat unmelodious cry of a cat, I saw a large grizzly-looking 
monkey, half clad in a dark-coloured pair of tartan trowsers and a flaming red waistcoat, 
evidently the property of some wandering vagabond or other. With a grave and senten¬ 
tious air that was vastly amusing, he held a kitten with both his hands to the strings of a 
guitar that reclined against a table, and the stragglings of the animal made it twang as it 
clutched at the strings, evidently to his great delight. The old cat, with no small share of 
impatience, was sympathetically joining the concert, till the enraged kitten, who struggled 
in the grasp of the grotesque animal, by a determined twist, was enabled to give his nose 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


19 


a severe scratch, when, with a shrill cry, he let her go, and sat grinning and chattering on 
the ground—the kitten making her escape by a bold leap to a neighbouring shelf, and 
very composedly began to lick herself clean from the brute’s rude contact, while he him¬ 
self, by a thousand antics, expressed his annoyance at being defeated. The “first lesson” 
in music was, I should imagine, the last. 

We were very comfortable at the hotel in which Dewbank had engaged bedrooms for 
us, and as the house v r as much used by the English residents, there was little or no variety 
from customs at home. Generally speaking, we dined at the table d'hote , though there 
were occasions when we found it to be both agreeable and pleasant to dine together in a 
private room, in order that we might talk matters over, and enjoy the charm of conver¬ 
sation. 

As we did not intend to stay above two or three days at Boulogne, Dewbank began to 
look after the means of departure. It was the custom, on the arrival of any vessel, for the 
police to board her and demand the passengers’ passports,* which were forwarded to Paris 
—a temporary one being, in the meantime, provided. All the regulations imposed upon 
travellers by the jealous nature of French monarchy had been observed, and our luggage 
had been sent from the custom-house, having been barely glanced at, for, as our gratuities 
had been liberal, we thus obviated a deal of trouble. 

It was a beautiful afternoon, and I had been walking by myself on the banks of the 
river Lianne, Boulogne being situated at its mouth, when I derived no little amusement by 
watching a sturdy peasant who, joleni Bacchus , was going ahead of me, and plainly more 
bothered by the width of the road than its length. 

He was a bluff, broad-shouldered, happy-looking fellow, of some forty years of age, and 
had gone a considerable distance into that “happy land” of the inebriate, so that whether 
“ hewer of wood,” or “ drawer of w r ater,” there was not a Bourbon in France as happy, I’ll 
be bound. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, in which some wag had stuck a peacock s 
feather. His short warm frock hid whatever deficiencies in his garments they might have 
laboured under, and one of his thick woollen stockings was, like Hamlet’s, “ ungartered. ’ 
A more marked physiognomy I never saw, and a vaster scale of features, including a 
mouth of the most ample proportions, have rarely been exceeded. 

By his side there trotted a little girl, looking remarkably neat and clean, though her 
garments were reduced to a mere chemise and linsey-wolsey petticoat. She seemed to 
enjoy the old fellow’s condition of excitement amazingly. She was evidently his child, 
for she had every feature of her face so much like to his, that there was no mistaking 
them; and although they were not particularly pretty, the fresh, healthy colour on her 
cheeks, the sparkling eyes, and the merry joyous laugh, had an attraction in them that 
was particularly irresistible. She had on neither hat nor shoes, and did not seem to have 
ever known their use. She carried in her hand a small basket filled with grapes and 

* Since December, 1849, by a new regulation, the use of passports in France has been utterly abolished. 


20 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


provisions, with probably a small bottle of wine or brandy for the jolly old grognard to 
humect his throat with if he felt inclined to be thirsty. 

The man was singing and laughing by turns. He had a strong Norman patois in his 
voice, which was very striking in its way, and had evidently attained the summit of earthly 
felicity. 

“Oh! Richard, oh! mon Roi!” he was singing, and then breaking out into some 
burlesque ditty, that sounded as if Rabelais had written it; then breaking out into a jovial 
fit of laughter, he drew upon his head the pretended ire of the daughter. 

“ You naughty papa,” said the child laughing also, “ will you not get a scolding from 
mother when she comes home? This is all from going to Pere Petit Grassue’s wine-shop, 
where you have been tasting grapes. Ah! fie! fie! Won’t mamma tell you of it?” 

“ Be quiet, you little scold, do,” rejoined the man with inimitable good temper; then 
making a fearful yaw, and bringing himself up to a sudden stand, he muttered, “ sapristie! 
one would say that I had been out in a mackerel boat, and had not got rid of the con¬ 
founded heaving and pitching of the sea; but, tralal la!” and he sang out lustily as he 
approached a rude but pretty cottage, thickly covered over with vine-leaves and blushing 
fruit: “ here we are, my little pet—here we are,” and felt in his pockets for his key. 

If Poussin had painted a cottage where bacchanals alone dwelt, it could not have been 
a more perfect spot. The ruddy grapes implied an absolute vat of wine, where the gigantic 
Cyclops might drink and be filled. The warm summer sun -was raining down his ripening 
influence among them, completing the delicious picture. Over the door hung, as a most 
significant sign of future good cheer, a wine-pot; and a cat that had been basking in the 
warmth, rose on the form as the man staggered, and began to give him welcome home. 

“ Ti, ti,” said the man; “ you old ruffian, are your claws clean after stealing neighbour 
Spadille’s fish? Here’s whiskers! here’s a warm top-coat!” and he endeavoured to stroke 
the animal’s back, which scratched him. “ Beast of a cat! Where’s my key?” and he 
began to fumble helplessly for it. “ Ah, my God! ” he cried, “ am I not to get in? This 
is my cottage. Eh! enfant /” he added to the child; and finally lugged out a huge key, 
with which he began to seek for the keyhole; but as the existing order of things had been 
disarranged to him in toto , he was unable to find it, though more puzzled than ever. 

“ In the name of me,” he muttered, “ surely no one has run away with the lock in 
my absence; if so, to fatigue oneself were useless.” All this time the merry child -was 
chuckling with the greatest glee over her father’s dilemma. 

“ Papa, papa,” she said laughingly, catching hold of his frock, as the oblivious man 
was tipsily groping about for the keyhole, and darting forth a mirthful glance at me, as I 
stood by watching the result; “ papa, you are trying to find the keyhole where there is 
none, and the gentleman is laughing at you.” 

“ Sapristie!” muttered the man, with a comical sigh. “ What then has become of fit? 
Surely I must be drunk! ” 

This conclusion being finally arrived at, the wine-bibber gave up the key to the little 



Z//W// 


. '/ /////. / / ^/' ////////7 


icjudon&^'Y'tV. (t<*r \, 


orsj t i retain <x i 










THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


21 


girl, who, standing on tiptoe, put it into the lock, and bade the man then turn It. After 
an eflort or two, the whole difficulty was mastered, and they both entered, leaving me 
heartily amused at the oddity of the affair. 

On my return to our hotel, I found that Ewart and Ralph were both of them in great 
glee; but the pleasure ot the latter was always checked in its exuberance, as though a 
great internal struggle marred all outward expression of delight, and reproached him with 
a levity unbefitting a man who had such great cause for mourning as himself. 

u W hat is the matter?” asked I, as I saw that something had occurred which greatly 
gratified them; u what have you seen or heard?” 

u It is what w r e have not as yet seen or heard, I reckon, that’s so almighty amusing,” 
replied Dewbank; “ but what do you think?” 

“ Of what?” I demanded. “Do not be so mysterious about what you have to say, 
lest it should fall to a discount when it’s told. ” 

u Humph!” muttered Dewbank, thrusting his huge hand through his wild-looking 
hair. “ I’ve half a mind to—but, no—what do you think of going to a little village fete?''' 

I started, overjoyed. “ Just of all things what I should most like,” I replied; “ but 
where is this fete to be held?” 

u At Wimille, a pretty little village about a mile and a half from this spot,” was the 
reply. u A rustic wedding is to take place, and as it is also one of their holidays to boot, 
I promise myself no little amusement.” It was Ralph Potter who now spoke, and that 
too with an animation which surprised me. “ I shall go there,” he concluded, smiling. 

II Well!” ejaculated Dewbank, lifting up his eyes, “ if this is not the most remarkably 
strange thing that I have observed in you yet, there’s no snakes in Virginny.” 

“ Nonsense,” I added; “ what can you see strange in a young fellow wishing to behold 
the prettiest faces of a French village collected together once upon a way? I will go also.” 

“ Why, that I easily concluded on,” said Dewbank, w T ith the most provoking simplicity 
of manner, "which indicated as much mischievous enjoyment as anything else. 

u We shall have Ralph Potter falling in love next, I calculate,” added Ewart. 11 Darn 
the critters, with their smooth pretty faces, and their sparkling eyes, they’re the only real 
St. Anthony’s temptations.” 

I, at the very moment Dewbank was speaking, caught sight of Ralph’s face, and was 
startled by seeing how white and pallid it was. J\Iy sudden look attracted Dewbank’s 
notice, and he abruptly stopped. 

With a low-breathed but tremendous curse upon his own want of judgment, and his 
folly in unconsciously harping so much upon things related to the more secret causes of 
Ralph’s grief, Dewbank was stalking with huge strides out of the chamber, either for the 
purpose of walking or drinking away his momentary annoyance, when Ralph’s voice 
stopped him. 

“ My dear Dewbank,” said he, “ it is I who am foolish and not you, and I take some 

shame to myself, that I have so little of manhood as to let the most innocent and trivial things 

F 


22 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


remind me of terrors that can have no future parallel. Do not go forth, and I will try and 
master these absurd emotions. It is well for a man,” he added with a sigh, “ to think, it 
he will, upon the past, because he should, in some form or other, draw the seeds of what 
may produce good fruit; and you will do me an act of friendliness not to let considerations 
for me check your speech. I must and I will be blunted in feeling, for these emotions, 
which so shake me, are but unhealthy indications after all.” 

For my part, dear reader, I was perfectly inclined to be of Ralph’s opinion, and without 
letting my purpose have pointed reference to him, I continued the conversation, as well 
as I could, upon the same theme, though Dewbank, I knew, sat upon thorns. His friend¬ 
ship for the youth kept him silent. This he felt to be still more awkward; and to obviate 
this difficult business he had in hand, viz., doing nothing at the moment, he took a huge 
Spanish cigar, and put the end into his mouth, which in five minutes was masticated into 
a pulp; and taking out his knife, began to whittle the mahogany chair on which he sat, 
till I was compelled to stop him, by pointing out the absurdity of his act. 

u Let us go and stroll about,” said he, at last. 

u No,” interposed Ralph with a quiet smile, u I will tell you both what you shall do. 
It is a lovely evening, and if you will go and sit in one of the verandahs which open upon 
the sea, I will give you some portions of an autobiography to read, which will put you in 
full possession of those circumstances that deeply affected myself some time back.” 

u Yours,” I exclaimed in delight; “ let us have it by all means.” 

A few moments beheld Dewbank and myself comfortably seated in a charming little 
spot, formed by the leads of one portion of the hotel. Before us were wine and cigars, and 
an almost total silence reigned around. 

Ralph went into his own room, as he said, to write, and I began to unfold the manu¬ 
script he had put in my hands, which I found headed— 

&n 0«tohi'ogrnpI)P‘ 

“ Before I plunge at once into my history,” it began, u I would wish, first of all, to hold 
some little colloquy with the reader, so that we may be a little at ease together as we proceed. 

u Good, kind, gentle reader, let me be friendly with thee then at the starting. Take it 
into thy head to like my tale hugely, and I will strive to please thee. I am about to write 
the story of a life; but it will be true enough in its generalities, and though this may have 
an under-current of sadness, or of terror, here and there gliding through it, weaving itself 
in the several threads I weave,—I say, and you will agree with me, that if this be so, my 
first chapter must not be sad, because it is one of summer—of the gorgeous flower-bearing 
summer—which is lull of the odours of wild thyme, and the music of brown bees, of silence 
deep and mysterious, broken by the sighing of the air, when the winds begin to breathe, 
and wild babblings pass by you in the gusts of the evening. 


‘ A sad tale’s best for winter 


TIIE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


therefore we eschew it, and this introduction is of youth! And is not that summer, I ask 
you ? 1 ou so grave and wise, with that fathomless profundity which may have led you 
(heaven knows how) over the 1 pons assinorum ! ’ You, also, who have ripe moist lips, on 
which there sits that charming smile I so much loved to see! You who are half mad with 
joy, going to spend your half-holiday in the fields, whispering earnest vows under the 
shade of May hedges into the prettiest, rosiest little ears in the world! I demand of you 
all "boldly then, is not youth summer ? 

u But for the winter ?” you ask. 

“ Be patient, O thou with brown hair and earnest eyes, with wild riotous health shining 
through those glowing cheeks of thine! Patience—the winter cometh slowly, surely, but 
full soon enough; there is but the golden autumn between man’s own noble harvest-time, 
and through that we will reel along with a sort of tipsy revelry, pelted with flowers and 
fruits, till we come to the threshold of the iron-handed winter; there yet awhile—patience. 
Let the winter be—let us 1 babble of green fields! ’ 

11 For there is a day, an hour, a moment in our life, when we all take solemn leave of 
our youth, as of some dear friend that we must part from. There is a time when we take 
our last banquet with it in the open air. 

“ Truly I begin to find that I am doing a bold thing in beginning this. I, who am so 
little able to grapple with the impassive sphinx-riddle before me. Yet methinks I hear 
you impatiently cry out — 1 To the story. O, poor authorling, proceed! let us have it.’ 

u What! at the beginning,” I ask, 11 do you desire to have the pith, the marrow of 
my story here, and I, too, speaking of youth—of the summer? That is just for a short time 
utterly impossible, for I am more than ever inclined to linger here, in this pleasant nook. 

“ To bid farewell to one’s youth for ever! 

u Truly there is something sad in this beyond all doubt; therefore let us sit down, thou 
and I, oh! my reader, and let us in dreamy meditation indite something of our youth. 
Listen to the distant chimes, which come to us as sounds come over a great sea. Think of 
this youth, in its time so great, so noble, so patrician, that supplied us with what we lacked 
of noble blood, and high descent, and coronets, of kingdoms, and elective crowns. Think 
of this youth, as of a gorgeous Thessalian spell, that made the stars look like a rain of 
1 golden fires,’ that made the weird moon bend down to earth, and of each one of us formed 
an Endymion. O, believe it—youth hath wondrous powers. 

11 My hero, good reader, is a young man; that is to say—myself! but I beg of you 
that you will not sneer at me and say, ( O ho! then this, your young hero, he is to be 
terribly virtuous, is he? he is, doubtless, to endure all the evils of life like a stoic; he 
is to be dreadfully sentimental; ah! he will drop fine aphoristic sentences, like another 
Joseph Surface—sentences picked up from the old moralists, from Seneca, from Epictetus, 
or Montaigne, something very dry and very trenchant from Locke, or more canonically 
loaded from Paley. Do you see,’ methinks I hear the reader continue, 1 that he is not to 
be at all vicious, not to have the slightest possible spice of the devil in him. lie will not 


24 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


"be remarkable for his wearing some peculiarly elegant vice—in these days it is a great 
recommendation—as he would some elegant garment. But, good gracious ! what on earth/ 
you cry, ‘ is the use of such a virtuous—such a nice young man?’ 

“ And I, reader, I declare to you, upon my word, that I cannot tell you; but I also beg 
of you not to be alarmed—have no fear, my hero will be no such prude, but a bold, ener¬ 
getic young man, who will be impulsive enough to wear his vice in a manner most remark¬ 
able and pleasing to yourself; for, as you observe, a terribly virtuous young man must, 
after all, be an amazingly stupid fellow; in fact, he must be quite a bore. 

“But of my heroine! 

“ Well, that I acknowledge to be my weak point, for Lady Macbeth and Desdemona I 
hold to be the antipodes of women. 

“ At this moment the form of our youth turns to us and says, c The time is up—we are 
now parting. Thou, O my brother, wilt go forth, and I shall be left behind. Bear wit¬ 
ness it is not I, thy youth , that is leaving thee; but it is thou that leavest me. Thou wilt 
mourn for me, as I will for thee—for thy youth, which reminded thee of the Heroic Ages, 
and of the Old Dramatists; and thou wilt have a long dreary wilderness to cross, ere thou 
come to the pleasant land of peace. I leave to thee hope, a gift worthy of the gods, and I 
bequeath to thee labour and toil, to be done and borne, difficulty and cold heedlessness (as 
thou wilt deem it from thy fellows), the one to be overcome, and the other to be thought of 
with forbearance and with pity. 

“ I leave thee also those great human affections, which may for many a sad and lonely 
hour wring thy soul with anguish. I give to thee the legacies of the poets—poverty and 
unrest; but I also give to thee the salt and the wine of life, for thy hour of joy shall be 
greater, and thy power of enjoyment shall be amplified to thee in fabulous measure. 

“ Thou art arrived at that period in thy life, when thou losest youth in manhood, and 
both of these again shortly in age—age, weak and tottering age, which remembers but 
dimly that it was once young, and graceful, and strong. Thou wilt never feel after, as 
thou hast done up to this time. Never will thy grand enthusiasm, that broke open the 
gigantic portals of the antique past, and showed thee the heroes of Homer, struggling in 
their heroic strife on the Scamander’s banks, be to thee what it has. It will be cold and 
cramped, and a heart full of worldly wisdom, and the dust of life’s trifles will be all that 
thou possessest. Oh! youth is the time, the fresh morning of the poets, the first throb of 
rapture in the bosom of love, the first glimpse of some diviner beauty to the sculptor, 
some dawn of heaven to the mystic, or the Swedenborgian. 

u To have been nourished from the first on kisses and milk at the breast of a fair, fond, 
adoring mother! To have been an absolute god to the great but utterly absorbed heart of 
a mother! for such is the child ever, unless by an unhealthy moral organization the 
instincts of nature are violated. To have been all this, I say, must be astonishing, and 
even incredible to him who is thirty or forty years of age, who is tall and strong, or portly, 
as your good citizen, who is fond of wool in his ear and about his feet, who looks upon his 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


25 


mother as a venerable relic of his civic grandsire, who is no more like a cherub than I am, 
and who has undergone an entire transformation since his childhood and his youth—for a 
man to think of what he has been, is, I repeat, very marvellous. He smiles, he is delighted, 
he lisps and stammers words quite unintelligible; but he cannot tell you the thoughts 
which move him. Oh, my youth! Oh, my childhood! are you departed never to 
return ? 

u It is thus, my reader, that, with a great cry of agony, I appeal to the radiant shade 
that is kissing my lips in farewell, and a mournful moisture dims the starry eyes from 
which I gather no joy. I smell the perfume of the young spring flowers; 1 behold the 
soft sunshine raining amid the trees, and casting fantastic shadows upon the rich sward; 
I hear the tolling of the village bells, and I see behind me the hill over which I must this 
night traverse—the hill which separates me from my youth. Ah ! believe me, he who has 
no reason to sorrow for parting from his youth, knows not what it was to have been happy 
once—joyous once—joyous, and as free from care as a child playing in the meadows. 

il Farewell then to my youth! 

u From this colloquy, O reader! do I draw forth a new inspiration, which shall clothe 
my hero, that is to say, once more—myself, with all the graces I can bestow upon him. 
He will be no duellist; but neither will he be a coward, nor an elegant scamp, which even 
the mildest of 1 fathers of families’ have such an insurmountable antipathy to. I shall 
not even be a spendthrift, a gambler, or a rake, though I may be prodigal, play cards, and 
cherish a 1 platonic love’ for a woman. After all, -when I look upon this transcript which 
I draw of myself, it strikes me that it will not eminently differ from what you, my reader, 
may be or have been, under precisely the same circumstances; and therefore, with your 
good leave, my story now commences.” 

The moment that I had completed this introductory portion of Ralph Potter’s narrative, 
which I had read without stop or pause, so much had it interested me, I placed the manu¬ 
script down and glanced upon Dewbank, as if, for the moment, I -would have gleaned his 
comment upon it from the expression of his face. Nor was I disappointed. I know not 
whether on his vast features there w r as most of astonishment or admiration. 

u What do you think of that?” I asked. 

“ Well,” replied Ewart in a measured tone, u I thought I had known the measure of 
Ralph Potter’s foot long before this; but if this doesn’t mystify me, there’s no 1 snags’ in 
the Mississippi, and that's not likely, seeing I have been caught twice when going from St. 
Louis to Mobile. I guess Ralph’s a genus any way you take him, and as that appears to 
be rather bulky”—(he was alluding to the voluminous folds of paper in my hands)—“I 
calculate upon many a pleasant hour being passed away. D’ye see Henry Clay,” lie 
added, “ a man may have a pretty strong idea of his clearness upon other folks’ matters; 

but there’s a deal of difference in telling a story one’s self, and in having it told for you. 

G 


26 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


Now, I’ve an idea that I could have given some close particulars myself; but this begin¬ 
ning takes all the shine out of me. I give it up—I do; and so, if you’ve no objection, have 
the kindness to proceed.” 

u It is likely to be very interesting,” I remarked; u but as there’s a difference between 
reading and drinking, seeing that one has the opportunity which the other has not, I will 
thank you to pass me that decanter,” and Dewbank, with the same unruffled gravity, 
passed it to me. 

11 1 have a very different idea with regard to the fete to-morrow,” observed Dewbank, 
as I filled my glass with the generous liquor. 

“ Why?” and, as a sort of parenthesis, I drank it off. 

u Why! umph! because—why, there you see, you have me now,” was his answer. 
11 How on ’arth is one to explain everything he seems to know?” 

“ Your question is still more puzzling,” I answered; u and you don’t know—” 

“1 do know, but can’t tell,” interrupted Ewart. 

I laughed at his perplexity. 

II Consarn it,” muttered the hunter, biting his lips; 11 can’t one happen to afford a con¬ 
jecture for a moment without being grinned at like a wild cat? There, that’ll do; go on 
with the reading, there’s a good fellow; and if I can explain myself when I arrive at the 
end of this cigar, I will.” 

I did as he wished, and again began to read. 

u I was descended,” the MS. went on to say, 11 from an old God-fearing family, one 
of whom had fought at Naseby and Oxford, and who had with his family, at the Restora¬ 
tion, emigrated in disgust from the land of his birth, and sought among those whom he 
had formerly known, an asylum and a home in New England. 

u The principles of civil and religious liberty for which he had fought and bled, and 
had expatriated himself, were sternly held by his descendants, till they appeared to be 
concentrated in the bosom of one individual, the last direct male branch of the family, 
who was none other than my father, who dwelt in a commodious and well-stocked farm in 
the very spot where, nearly two hundred years ago, the first of them had erected his taber¬ 
nacle in the wilderness, in order that he might worship God beneath the shadow of his 
house, with none to make him afraid. 

II Of my early years I have but little to relate, for as there was a disposition on my 
father’s part to educate me for the bar, or the pulpit, whichever I might choose, my studies, 
however unimportant then, had a tendency to that direction, and at the age of sixteen I was 
sent to Columbia College, bearing letters of introduction to some of the inhabitants of the 
city, with one of whom I was to take up my abode; and it ay as there the fair phantom 
which has haunted my existence since, Avith its alternate forms of beauty and of terror, 
first daAA r ned upon my path. She Avas one of the most beautiful creatures that ever glad¬ 
dened the heart and eyes of man. She Avas a governess at the house of a gentleman Avhose 
name Avas Munro.” 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


27 


When I pronounced this name, Dewbank gave a start that made me dread another 
interruption. “ What now?” said I, quietly. 

u ^ hy, that I have seen her, that I knew her, that it’s all true as the bible,” he began. 

u W hy, so I imagine,” I replied; “ and it is the commencement, and the middle, not 
the concluding catastrophe of the history of which I am ignorant.” 

“ Why don’t you read then?” he exclaimed with incredible assurance. So great was 
his absence of mind, that he did not appear to be aware of his hindrance. “ Why do you 
stop?” he demanded. 

“Stop!” I repeated. “Humph! Well I suppose to take breath;” and I resumed 
the narrative. 

“ W hen I carried my letter to Mr. Munro, on the second day after my arrival, I found 
that he was entertaining a large and brilliant party, and I would have retired, in order to 
call on the morrow, but that I had been announced to the worthy host, and scon found 
myself in the midst of an elegant assembly, with my hand warmly grasped in his own. 

“ My welcome was so cordial, that I was put at my ease at once. After being intro¬ 
duced to some few around me, I was led by Mr. Munro to his wife, a tall fine-looking 
woman, whose face and features would have charmed me at once, had it not been that her 
innate goodness was still greater than her outward attractions. She received me with the 
greatest kindness, ordered a 1 help ’ to be sent for my luggage to the hotel I had put up at, 
and intimated that I should be domiciled with them from that very evening. I could not 
refuse (even had I felt the inclination) an offer so frankly made, and assented to all her 
wishes, which I observed gave her evident satisfaction. 

“ I was then introduced to her two eldest daughters—two very beautiful and accom¬ 
plished girls—one sixteen and the other eighteen years of age. I found them charming, 
unaffected, highly educated girls, and we were soon upon the most agreeable terms. While 
I was engaged in conversation with them, and making my way as fast as I could into their 
good graces, I heard Mrs. Munro say, in a tone that was a little too condescending, 1 Mr. 
Potter, let me introduce to you Mademoiselle Gabrielle.’ 

“ I turned round the moment she spoke, and met the full, bold, dazzling, and superb 
eyes of Aline turned full upon me, with an expression so strange and indefinite as to give 
me a sense of annoyance, which was dissipated immediately after by her overpowering 
loveliness. 

“ It was a superb, haughty, splendid face, the remembrance of which haunts me to this 
hour. The complexion was of a dark brilliancy, and the rich crimson blood could be 
traced beneath the brunette skin, flowing with a richness and a purity I have never known 
excelled. Iler lips were of a pure Vermillion hue, small and exquisitely foimed, and a 
perfume seemed to exhale over their moist coral, as they paited and displaced the beauti¬ 
fully formed teeth within; but the eyes! oh! they were endowed with wondrous power. 
The face was oval, faultlessly beautiful, and hair, dark as the raven’s plumage, was taste¬ 
fully gathered and held in a sort of gauze net-work. 


28 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


“ There was—how well I can remember it now—there was in the glance which first 
met mine, something so cold, haughty, and supercilious, that I was struck by its repellant, 
its chilling influence. It would seem that the effect this produced upon me was discovered 
by her, for, with an irradiation spread over her majestic countenance, she dismissed all 
traces of the repulsive sentiment, and stood there with a smile of such irresistible 
fascination on those lips, that I beheld, for the instant, no other person. She absorbed 
every attention, and there I stood gazing in speechless admiration upon this magnificent 
woman. 

“ She then advanced, and putting out a fair white hand of the most exquisite propor¬ 
tions, spoke a few words to me, which sounded in my ears like the murmured music of a 
dream. I mechanically took her hand, and conquering my timidity by an effort, returned 
her salutation, and again found myself at my ease conversing with a group of the most 
elegant women in the room. 

“ Mademoiselle Aline Gabrielle was the daughter of a French emigrant, who had died 
some years ago, leaving her with a beautiful person, great natural talents, an intellect 
cultivated and adorned to the highest degree. These were the resources upon which she 
had been thrown. Descended by birth from the old aristocracy of France, she had a pride 
of blood and ancestry commensurate with the dignities she had lost. Having adopted the 
profession of a governess, though the opera had at first held out temptations to her, which 
she then refused, she was now residing in that capacity in the house of Mr. and Mrs. 
Munro, which she found to be a home. 

“ My acquaintance with the world was chiefly through the medium of books; but as 
my reading had been extensive in every department, I found myself able to converse with 
one who had moved amid the gaieties and grandeurs of the French capital. It was a 
position to a raw inexperienced lad, as novel as intoxicating; but I have no reason to 
believe that I was particularly deficient in anything that I advanced, and have often after¬ 
wards wondered at my ow'n temerity. It appeared that she was on the best terms with 
her employers and her pupils, for whatever might have been the prejudices or conventions 
existing in the highest circles of society in New York, the frigidity of distance was, in her 
case, annihilated. 

u 1 Ah! ’ she said, ‘ you would love Paris, if you were once to see it. Paris ! beautiful 
Paris! which I shall never behold more,’ and she sighed. 

u ‘ Do not say so,’ I rejoined; ‘ but, on the contrary, hope strongly in the probabilities 
of the future. I have not seen Paris yet; but I am in hopes I shall do so, and what I 
have heard you say in favour of that golden city has increased my curiosity very greatly, 
I assure you.’ 

u 1 You are come to New York in order to go to college, Mr. Potter, I understand,’ she 
said. 

“‘Yes,’ was my reply. 

“ ‘There is something of the pedantry of the bookworm, something of the enthusiasm 
















































c 


////' 























TIIE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


29 


of tlie student about you,’ she began with a slight—the very slightest—touch of that cold 
and haughty disdain that I had observed darkening her brow first. 

U 1 Have you mingled so much in the world,’ I asked, with a feeling of desperation, 
1 that you can despise those who possess less of the worldly than the courtiers of the Bour¬ 
bons are said to have been so full of? It is hard upon the toil of the scholar, if his hair 
whitening in his solitude must become mockery to the beautiful and the lovely.’ 

Meaning me, sir, she said quickly; 1 ma foi ! you throw the gauntlet down early. 
Little as you know of the world, you are in danger of becoming a flatterer.’ 

“ 1 1 tmst n0 V was my rejoinder; and we were walking down the room, when I heard 
a buzz ot admiration rising from all sides of me, as the men caught sight of this queenly 
Cleopatra, and my veins tingled with a sort of feverish defiant pride, as I heard them 
envying me my good fortune in being so soon favoured with her notice; for it was said 
that to others she was cold and distant, treating them with that haughty humility, that, in 
the hands of those who know how to use it, is so effectual a weapon. 

a She spoke English perfectly; but there was an indescribable accent in it which 
betrayed her origin, and gave, I knew not what, wonderful charm to it. I was intoxicated, 
enraptured, bewildered. I exerted myself to please, and by the pleasure beaming in 
Aline’s magical eyes, I did not doubt but I had succeeded. 

11 Such was my first interview with Aline! 

u The next day I went out with Mr. Munro, who took me about to show me all that 
was worthy of notice in the city and its environs (for that was my first visit to it); but I 
passed the time in almost a total absence of mind, for the maddening beauty of Aline 
distracted me. I could not rid myself of her image. It haunted me like that indefinite 
fear, which we cling to and yet dread, and I returned with my kind host home, in order 
that I should again meet her in the household circle ere all retired for the night, and there 
I still drank draughts of that Mtenad beauty which was to bring forth such fruit here¬ 
after. 

“ Simple, young, and untutored, I yet had a sufficient portion of shrewdness and com¬ 
mon sense, Avhich in a manner checked my enthusiasm, and prevented me from acting on 
one or two occasions like a fool; and I thought it strange, that a woman endowed with 
such qualities as Aline possessed, in addition to the attraction of her charms, should not 
have become to the fashionable loungers of New York, something, the pursuing of which 
must have possessed them with a delirious insanity; but then that insanity must have been 
a magnificent sensation—an absorption of all things beneath heaven that the poet would 
have rhymed of, and the painter would have created a face of never dying loveliness, the 
sculptor, like another Pygmalion, would have adored the creation of his own works, and 
grown mad with love even as I did. 

« Yes! I loved her, but as yet I had not sought hers. The important matter that 
brought me—a boy—to that city where she was the incarnation of all I hoped to have and 
possess, and where a few days made me a man in passion, in sentiment, in oh! how can 


30 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


words be found to describe that delirium of our youth when we first love, and the more 
especially when that love is so terribly intense—so much in earnest! 

u Days passed away like so many shadows, and I will weary you, my reader, with no 
more of detail than is absolutely necessary, unless, indeed, there happen to pass certain 
moments when it is utterly impossible to be silent. I was going to enter upon my college 
career with a sanguine heart, with my limited share of talents, I may say, really well 
capacitated to receive whatsoever of instruction I was to go through. 

u You, reader—you, alas! will see that I had gone through my first curriculum already. 
u I could now see my friend’s house but at intervals; my heart was ever there. What 
of that? when I came to the majestic images of the beautiful, that the great classic poets 
poured out before me, then it was, that—like a gorgeous investment of my own inward 
abstraction—like the incarnation of the sonorous words I gave utterance to—Aline Gabrielle 
was before me. 

11 How I cherished her image—her form—her face! How her tones sang with a cadence 
more delicious to the ear, that it was borne past my casement in the murmur of the evening 
breeze, which carried with it also the odour of those delicious flowers which, in the 
favourable season of the year* is even generous to the most gorgeous tropical blooms in the 
evening. 

u I saw her at times. Like an impassive creature, devoid of sentiment and impulse, her 
marble constraint would change with the passionate glance of reciprocity, as if she too had 
caught the fires of the tropics; and with the same impassibility she would, in one instant, 
be the same stately, cold, magnificent woman as before. 

“ All this, as you may believe, my reader, was incomprehensible enough. What of 
that? To a man of seventy woman has been an enigma. What was she then to a lad who 
had not seen as yet his first four lustres of life over. 
u There is yet something that I must relate. 

“ I feel, I know not what, of difficulty in so doing. I have a repugnance against it 
which I feel to be utterly useless. I must do it. 

u It relates to the evening on which I parted from her to go to college, knowing well 
that weeks would elapse ere I saw her' again. 

11 This was not necessarily so, because being in the same city, it was natural enough 
that I could with ease avail myself of many opportunities of visiting Mr. Munro’s house; 
but that I was determined to attach myself heart and soul to my studies, and so make 
myself, mentally, great enough to cope with any one who might attempt to be my rival, 
for that I had one or more, I felt assured. 

“ No, I was even free from that mean jealousy which creates fears and doubts; but 
besides that, I was obeying the wishes of a noble father, and the prayers of a benign and 
beloved mother. I also had that instinct for acquirement which would not be denied me, 
but which also I must in some degree labour to possess. 

11 In addition, the few parting words which she uttered had to me a profound meaning. 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


31 


There was an indestructible sympathy between us—that is to say, on my part; whether she 
had the same lambent and imponderable magnetism pervading her, I do not yet say. 

11 The house in which Mr. Munro lived was a very fine one. It was large, lofty, and 
commodious in every respect, for he had an almost princely fortune, and he used his wealth 
in an almost princely manner. 

u It was situated near to the extremity of-Street, at a place where East Broad¬ 

way intersects it, and within a few minutes’ walk of Corlears’ Hook. The house was 
remarkably lofty, I must add, and from the upper windows, where very elegant and com¬ 
modious verandahs had been built, we had a view of the harbour of Jersey on the main¬ 
land, of Booking Island, of Nutten, of Brooklyn, of Williamsburgh, while far beyond, Long 
Island loomed largely in the fogs of an Atlantic evening, and the great main was mingled 
with the sky. Within a mile was the college, and for the first several days I did not 
hasten towards the house by a single step without the walls—but I am now speaking of 
our—I say our, because—because I have written it down, and do not mean to scratch out 
with my pen, as yet, aught it has written. But to our parting. 

u It was a delicious afternoon, deepening into that soft purple twilight which, when the 
wind blows over the sea, is always so calm and serene. I had' been out driving from place 
to place with my host, and as by this time I had become known to a few, and as my 
father’s name was a celebrity (the names of our American founders are the ancestry of the 
New World, though we look upon them with ideas different from those descended from the 
Conqueror of England), I was the least in the world of a 1 lion, and a party was gathered 
within those hospitable walls. 

u Mrs. Munro was particularly kind on this evening. The kind, sisterly girls, fair and 
lovely as they were—but they are now happy and honoured wives—they too pressed me by 
the very weight of their frank kindness. I passed from one to another. I chatted with 
them for a time, danced for a time, evermore casting glances towards the door for Aline, 
but she came not. I supped with them, and drank wine with the guests, an unusual prac¬ 
tice with me ] but it seems now, that, had I been the finest diplomatist in the world, I could 
not have better disguised my thoughts, though my heart was on a rack of anxiety and / 
pain. 

11 She came not; and I was quelling the great yearning of my soul by still drinking 
wine and replying to questions, as much as by unconsciously asking others, when suddenly 
I heard a man mention Mademoiselle Gabrielle’s name, and instantly, I felt a revulsion, so 
singularly strange and overpowering, that I was wholly silent, listening yet for those lips 
to open. 

« He was silent; but I turned to look upon him. 

11 At the risk of wearying my reader, I must once more recur. Forgive my transilience, 
O friend! If thou art not twenty, thou wilt do so easily. If past that time by ten or 
twenty years, think bach a little. I feel then assured of my forgiveness. 

11 Besides, have I not repeated it again and again, she was so beautiful! 



32 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


u I have mentioned the haughty, contemptuous frown that I imagined, yea, was sure of, 
I saw gathering on her brows. The remembrance of this came over me like the seething 
of a lavaic stream, like the rush of fire which issues from the metal when you change iron 
into steel by placing it all incandescent into water. It was at the time so evanescent that 
a heavenly smile dissipated the whole—for the time afterwards it came again, and I felt the 
indignant blood rush to my forehead. 

u At the flashing supper-table, where vessels of rich workmanship graced the board, 
where wine sparkled in the calyx of the cup, where men, young and old, handsome, 
attractive, and otherwise, were met, where gaiety, in my honour too, reigned supreme, I 
heard Aline’s name mentioned. 

“ But how ? There was the bitterness of wrath struggling with contempt in the tone. 
I turned to look upon the speaker, and if a glance could have struck him dead, there had 
been a gap at the board then. 

“ I do not even now ask God to forgive me for that wrathful tide—that rage which made 
my blood boil and bubble within my veins. 

u The man I looked upon was a swarthy but strikingly elegant man, and as elegantly 
dressed. His face was as beautiful as that of an Apollo ; and after the face of Aline, I 
have never in my life looked upon one whose beauty, feminine or masculine, was more 
divine. 

11 He was named He Soucho—was a planter of enormous wealth. His father was a 
Creole—a singularity—and his mother was one of those lovely Georgian women, who are 
like the type of the Venus Anadyomene. 

u Not twenty-five years of age, he had the strength of a giant, was skilled in all athletic 
exercises, was of a debauched character, a gambler, a wretch, a demon in the human form; 
but that form was matchless! 

11 How these singular discrepancies of creatures came to pass, I do not presume to guess; 
certain it is that they are so. I knew him when I looked upon him, and popular rumour 
had already made me acquainted with his character. 

u In the earlier part of the evening I had held his hand in mine. Now, I could have 
gripped him by the throat; but his voice, insolent and proud, had that strangely attractive 
modulation in it, that I listened even when the bitterest fires were lighting up in my 
heart. 

u He had mentioned Aline’s name, and now with his ruddy cup held in his hand, he 
mockingly proposed the health of Madamoiselle Aline. 

u I started to my feet. In a single instant, the absurdity, the danger of my anger, 
flashed across my soul. I knew nothing. I should be laughed at. I said, in reply to 
their questions, that I was seized with a sudden spasm, and that I would go into a balcony 
and breathe a mouthful of fresh air. 

u The apartment where I had slept was at the top of the house; on a lower flight was 
a large nursery, from that you emerged on the noble balcony affording the prospects I have 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


33 


mentioned. As I was crawling, rather than walking up, the door being open, I caught 
the flutter of light garments, and, seized with a sudden impulse, I crossed the chamber, 
emerged at the window, and, holding out my hand, said, 1 Aline!’ 

II f he delicious softness and silence of the evening, the broad seaward prospect before 
me, the light clouds beginning to fall and thicken upon the horizon where the sun had set, 
formed a picture of such dreamy beauty, that Coleridge alone could have described it in 
fitting words. Poussin might, perhaps, have painted it, and given to it that indescribably 
mystical beauty which I despair to define. 

“ Aline started when she heard my footstep, and turned round. Could that most 
fair woman at a single glance read my soul ? Such was the question I asked myself; 
but I scarcely know what I had intended to say. 

III Aline! Mademoiselle Gabrielle ! ’ I began, and was then silent. 

“ ‘ How do you do?’ she returned calmly, as she placed her fingers in my open hand. 
‘ You look pale; I trust you are not unwell.’ 

“ I could have cast myself at her feet, and placed her hands upon my eyes, to weep a 
sea of tears. The great torrent that was then welling upwards from my very heart, I 
repressed by a moment of great agony. The cold calmness with which she spoke seemed 
intended to disarm me of all power to speak. 

“ 1 1—I have—escaped away for a moment,’ I stammered out, ‘ in order to breathe a 
little of the fresh air of the sea. How beautiful!’ and I glanced upon the prospect 
before me. 

“ ‘ What is beautiful ?’ 

“1 looked into her face, and the mocking smile was lurking on her lips. 

“ ‘ The evening,’ I replied, as calmly as herself; and I thought she was struck by my 
changed tone. 1 1 am happy,’ I continued, with a sort of constrained politeness, ‘ to see 
you at this moment.’ 

“ ‘ Why ? why ? ’ 

“ I could not for my life comprehend the impatient manner in which she demanded 
this. In any one else I should have imagined it a rudeness,—but a rudeness at which I 
could have laughed. A revulsion of feeling was for the moment created. My indignation 
at the insolent hauteur of He Souche had not in the least degree abated. But bitterness 
mingled with this indignation against her. 1 She is conscious of her beauty,’ I thought. 
‘ She is proud of her power. She is ambitious; but has her ambition a tendency to good? 
Will she walk beneath the homage of men to a position which no woman may win, and 
retain her good name ? She despises the boy bred up in the primitive simplicity of his 
fathers,—who is rude as the wild woods he comes from, who is unpolished, ignorant of the 
world—and—’ I know not how far my thoughts would have gone, till she repeated the 
words, 

“‘Why?—glad!’ 

“ ‘ I am grateful,’ I replied, but my voice. I know, was low and tremulous, ‘ to all who 


34 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


have at any time shown me the least kindness; I have to thank you for some hours 
happily passed in your society. Accomplished and well-informed as you are, you cannot 
know how I appreciated-’ 

u 1 But, Mr. Potter,’ said Aline, interrupting me, 1 this is like a parting speech—a 
laborious valediction-’ 

u 1 It is, if you will call it so, a parting speech. It is a valediction , though I cannot say 
it is laboured, for it gives no trouble to tell people that I thank them for a smile, or a 
word of kindness-’ 

a 1 What can you mean ?’ and there was still in her musical voice that which com¬ 
pletely left me in the dark as to her thoughts. 1 You speak of parting, and you have, as I 
understand, but just come from the country to make a considerable stay in New York.’ 

“ ( That is true, Mademoiselle,’ I rejoined, becoming still calmer, as her apparent indif¬ 
ference was certainly working its way—taking full effect upon me. 1 That is true,’ I said; 
1 but, as I am destined for study, my college-chambers will be those of a recluse when I am 
once in them : I have vowed not to leave them speedily.’ 

u 1 Like Charles the Fifth, when he turned monk,’ said Aline, with a laugh; but it was 
a jarring and discordant one, and grated most harshly upon my nerves. 

“ I therefore said, 1 1 was glad of the opportunity of bidding you good-bye-’ 

a 1 But—but—you are not—you cannot be in earnest,’ said Aline, with an expression of 
anxiety that made me tremble from head to foot. 

u I dreaded her now—I dreaded her power over me, for I knew nothing of her heart, 
and how was I to be assured that my love, my pretensions, might not be laughed at ? 
As that idea flashed upon me, I felt my temples throb, and a fiery glow steal through my 
blood, till it mantled in my cheeks, and made my eyes glisten. 

u She was gazing upon, and had very possibly observed my emotion, but could not 
well attribute it to anything in particular, and I was determined to be cold as a statue—if 
I could. 

11 Her question, however, and the slight tremor in her voice, had nearly unhinged me. 

u 1 1 beg to assure you,’ said I at last, c that, in the midst of my homeliness, I have no 
idea of saying what I do not mean. I am going like a monk into his cell, and shall 

ramble no farther than the cloisters; I shall then be enabled to think of—of-’ 

I hesitated. 

u 1 Of Mr, Munro,—of his fair daughters,’ hazarded Aline. 

u 1 And of yourself,’ was my answer, though I fancied there was a slight bitterness in 
her voice, 

11 i Y ou will pardon me,’ I continued, 1 for making one observation. As there is no 
impertinence in my motive, so will you, I trust, exonerate me from every intention of the 
kind. And when I assure you, that with a feeling of the profoundest respect, I would also 
add friendship-’ 

11 Her lips parted, and they were paler than their usual wont. I heard a gentle murmur 







THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


35 


pass them : £ Respect—friendship—all the same—mouth-honour- 7 I could almost 

have sworn there was a tear in her eye. 

u 1 1 beg of you to do me no such wrong as your words imply,’ I said, hastening to 
uudeceive her; but a proud curl of the lip repelled me once again. 

u i Be pleased to proceed with what you were going to observe. I assure you, that with 
regard to what you have said, I place every reliance upon your word; and believe you 
would not willingly insult one who is a mere dependant upon another man’s bounty.’ 

“ She spoke almost with ferocity. I was astounded; however, I went on. £ While with 
the company below, as the wine was passing round, my attention was drawn to a young- 
man whose beauty of feature, I am told, is in utter contrast with his blackness of heart.' 

u 1 Who told you so, sir?’ 

“ The insolent pride of this question did not deter me. 1 It is not the question w>7w,’ I 
replied, 1 when a thing is common rumour. I take it for granted that there are some good 
grounds for supposing rumour to be true.’ 

u ‘ You will one day find, Mr. Potter, that this theory is wrong and ruinous.’ This she 
said with an air so sad, so serious, and with so melancholy a tone, that I fancied for a 
moment another had spoken. 

“ 1 1 cannot tell,’ was my reply; 1 1 will hope so, if it be for the better. But this 
stranger-’ 

u 1 What was his name, did you hear?’ 

u She turned dreadfully pale as I spoke, and methought a darker shadow was falling 
upon us both. 

a 1 Well, sir!’ at last she moaned out; c what of all this? From your preface I 
apprehend the matter.’ 

11 1 He mentioned your name,’ I said, in a tone intended to convey to her what I, in 
delicacy, would not amplify upon. 

11 It was with a shriek almost that she echoed my word. L Mine! ’ and then hurriedly 
added, 1 Does he then know—has he tracked me hither? Is it possible that I am doomed? 
Who can have told him?’ and thus panting, staring wildly upon me, like one who had for 
the time utterly forgotten herself and all around her— 

u 1 What can you mean? why these exclamations? what have you to fear?’ Such 
were my rapid queries. 

u 1 Fear! from him! Have you not said that his beauty was divine?’ Such was the 
reply made to me. 

u £ My instincts cannot be wrong,’ I continued; c his beauty is like that of Satan, to be 
dreaded and avoided.’ 

« < It is the fascination of that beauty which is so terrible;’ and with trembling hands 
clasped together, with pale lips, and eyes bent on the ground, she thus succumbed passi\ely 
to this influence. 

« It filled me with rage, did this unworthy weakness on her part. Mentally I ran over 




36 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


a comparison of the physical appearance of De Souclie and myself. I certainly lost by it; 
but not to a very great extent. My love was great and pure, and there was nothing in her 
womanhood, with every splendid virtue that can give lustre and dignity to personal charms 
—so I thought—that should make me so far unworthy as to give place to a, vicious liber¬ 
tine like this De Souclie, who would pluck the flower, and then insolently trample it down 
into the dirt with his heel, without even taking the trouble to conceal his affronting con¬ 
tempt. 

u 1 De Souclie,’ said I, bitterly, 1 may have reason to congratulate himself—he barely 
appears but he conquers.’ 

u 1 What mean you, sir?’ Her eyes flashed ardently; there was, in truth, a wicked fire 
in them, that showed how intense her passions were rvlien carried to any extreme. 1 What 
mean you? how dare you connect my name with this man’s, or insinuate that he—he of 

all human beings—should-but I am rambling;’ and she suddenly became collected. 

1 Once more, sir; what does this mean ? ’ 

111 Mademoiselle,’ I replied, 1 1 heard this man name you with the indifferent, easy, 
insolent tone of one who—who— By heaven, madam, I cannot clearly express myself 
without offence. I know this, that my impulse was to take him by the throat.’ 

u 1 Thanks for your chivalrous feeling.’ I was almost afraid even then that she was 
mocking me. 1 Thanks, sir; but remember’—here she became grave — 1 if you interfere in 
every case where you hear man mention a woman’s name, you may quarrel from the sunrise 
to the setting.’ 

11 1 bowed. I could have answered her too—and this, I think, she felt; for with that 
lofty species of pride, which permits itself to be insulted by those wdiose good we seek, I 
was silent. 

u 1 I say, sir, that I thank you; ’ and Aline stood as if she expected me to proceed. 

u 1 It is quite unnecessary,’ I answered; 1 1 thought he offered you an insult. It appears 
that I thought wrongly. You will forgive me this, because I am young, and a little hasty 
and impetuous. This foolish youth, mademoiselle, is a thing that will daily mend itself. 
I shall grow older and wiser—I trust so; but permit me to add,’—and my soul must have 
infused itself in the earnest words I spoke— ( I would rather have seen you a corpse—I 
would rather behold you precipitate yourself from this balcony—I, who esteem you, and 
seek—and seek’—but here I checked myself — c while this wretch despises you’—the colour 
here rose to her cheeks— 1 1 would have preferred seeing you dead, and assisting to place 
you in the earth, rather than have heard the words he uttered—father than have heard him 
speak in the fashion he did! 5 

u c Merciful God! ’ she clutched me by the arm ; 1 what—were they so evil then ?’ 

u i I cannot say another word. Permit me to bid you now farewell!’ and I held out 
my hand. 

u The great swimming orbs of Aline were full of such unspeakable tenderness—thanks, 
gratitude, and something undefined, gave them a magic most irresistible. 



THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


37 


lc c Farewell!’ she said; ‘you have then felt some interest in the poor orphan! You' 
would have protected me.’ 

u ‘ You are speaking mockingly,’ I interrupted her with dignity; ‘ at least you are 
laying an unnecessary emphasis upon the word ‘protected. I would protect the meanest 
creature that exists ; but 1 will not press myself, my attention—my—protection, upon any 
against their will. In your sarcasm you possess a weapon,’ I added, 1 which is keen and 
cutting—beware that it does not injure yourself. With one like myself, whose very can¬ 
dour and simplicity will be sufficient to disarm the most skilful, such a gift is utterly thrown 
away. You have certainly made me feel it this night, and bitterly too. Listen to the 
reason. No man, I imagine, can be pleased at the idea of a beautiful woman laughing at 
him—laughing sardonically, that is to say. You cannot make me feel such another pang; 
but’—this I added in a low voice—‘ you can for ever seal up my lips.’ I wrung her hands, 
as if I were her senior by twenty years. I had completely reversed our relative positions. 

“ ‘ I do not lose a friend, I trust,’ she murmured, as I was moving away. 

“ I bent down my head to kiss her hand, and tear after tear fell upon it, for I was now 
disarmed, utterly beaten; but come what would, I was determined that my lips should not 
betray me. I pressed her hand to my lips fervidly, and I felt that she started, as if she 
had been stung. 

“ ‘ Pardon my freedom,’ I said, dropping her hand. 

u 1 Let us have no further misunderstanding on this point,’ said she quickly; but in a 
voice whose music was most adorable, and she placed her hand in mine. I was astounded. 

1 Do not mistake me, do not judge of me yet, and not over-harshly at any time. I ought 
not to lose one friend wdio is sincere, who is disinterested. Yet,’ she added, half smiling, 

1 how do I know that you are disinterested ? ’ 

u c Because,’ I answered, 1 1 have asked for naught, and do not mean to do so.’ 

11 ‘You are a strange youth,’ said she with an effort; for what I had said appeared to 
have blanched her cheek; 1 and shall we not meet again soon?’ 

111 1 know not,’ was my mournful answer. 1 It might have been for my peace had we 
never met. It may be for the happiness of both if we never meet.’ 

u 1 Do not say so,’ and she clutched me by the arm ; 1 do not say so. I have faith in 
omens, and I shuddered then.’ 

“ 1 Something evil is near,’ I observed, for I too shuddered; and Aline drew closer to 
me. 1 Believe in what I say,’ I added, in a half whisper, 1 for I doubt that man.’ 

u 1 "Whom, sir, do you presume to doubt?’ 

“ I turned my eyes to the spot from whence this strange voice proceeded. To my 
dismay—perhaps to my momentary confusion-^-there stood De Souche himself! 

u Certainly, any contrast made at the moment would have been fatal to my pretensions, 
for I doubt if within the States a more superb specimen of manhood could have been 
found. He had no hat on, and his fine hair was tossed upon a forehead of that broad and 
massive form, which is the characteristic of the Greek sculptures. The rich hues of his 

Iv 


33 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


olive elieek were heightened by the generous wine he had been quaffing. His large flash¬ 
ing eyes moving with nervous rapidity beneath splendidly-pencilled eye-brows, and the 
fine firm lips, just parted, showing the strong beautifully-formed teeth, were as exquisite 
in their shape as any ideal could be. 

“ Matchless, wonderful, and fascinating as the man’s beauty was, it had, to the very 
close observer, that which counteracted the whole. The noble formation of the jaw might 
have belonged to all that was expressive both of candour and firmness, but the slight curve 
at the angle of the lips might be attributable to Judas. The eye which never avoided you, 
had a peculiarity such as men have observed in the exaggerated eye of the black adder. 
Such was the man who now asked me the question I have just mentioned, and the reader 
may easily imagine that my position was not precisely the most enviable in the world, and 
this for more reasons than one. 

u I stood at the instant in the condition of one who lias been vilifying an absent person, 
and it bore a mean, cowardly aspect upon its very appearance. My instincts told me 
I was right, and the haughty air of defiance, superiority, and boundless contempt, set my 
blood once more boiling in my veins. 

111 Whom sir, do you presume to doubt, I repeat?’ 

a 1 Do not answer!—do not reply! I implore you do not!’ It was Aline who spoke, 
and there was pain and agony in her tone and manner. 

u 1 Hey day! is it possible that lips so charming should speak in favour of one whom 
no one knows? and’-—but here De Souche’s face darkened,—interrupting himself, he 
added, ‘ I asked you a question ; answer it.’ 

“ ‘ That I do not answer you, as I am most strongly moved to do, and as is my 
usual wont when replying to such demands—thank the presence of this lady,’ was my 
answer. 

u Aline shrank back in dismay and terror; wherefore I did not know, save that per¬ 
haps her woman’s nature was touched with a pity for me—that I despised: for this 
noted duellist—this unerring swordsman—De Souclffi, could hold my life at his mercy any 
moment, and she feared the result—so I thought. He started back a step too, and the 
dark black blood of the most stormy and ferocious passions gave his splendid visage 
such a hideous glory, that I bethought me at the moment of Milton’s description of the 
baffled Satan brooding in Pandemonium over his fall. 

a i You are mad—utterly mad,’ said Aline to me. But I was like marble, glaring sullenly 
upon the man who had so outraged my feelings. 

“ 1 Yes, the.poor imbecile is mad enough,’ he observed with a laugh, which made 
my hands draw together with the tension of a giant; ‘ but, nevertheless, with leave of 
Mademoiselle, I would wish a reply made. For the third time, against whom did you 
warn this lady ? ’ This he addressed to me. 

u 1 Against you, unquestionably.’ 

11 In fact I was astonished at my own daring; for the danger I incurred may be 


THE AMEHICAN IN EUEOrE. 


39 


easily imagined, when I state that rumour did not hesitate to ascribe recourse to assassina¬ 
tion, either by his hands or those of his minions. 

u 1 De Souchd! De Souchd! hear him not; spare him—be merciful, for my sake,’ and 
she laid great stress upon the word—‘ for my sake let this unhappy chance be forgotten.’ 

“ 1 Certainly,’ said De Souche, kissing his hand with graceful, but with the most 
atrocious audacity; c but the puppy must certainly ask my pardon.’ 

u I was worked up to the 1 striking ’ pitch, I can assure you, my readers, and that does 
not speak much perhaps for my philosophy or my policy. I laughed a low scornful laugh. 

u 1 1 have no time to lose over a brawl,’ said lie, with slow and very marked emphasis; 
1 the more particularly with an unfledged boy like you’—he had his basilisk eye fixed 
upon me the whole time ,— e but it is necessary for my sake and your own safety, that you 
ask my pardon—do so quickly,’ he added, 1 for,’ with refined impertinence, ‘ I would speak 
a few words to this lady, when, like a good boy, you are gone.’ 

u My chest heaved like that of an Atlas under his load. My eyes flashed fire, for 
scintillations of it were dancing before me, and a strength was infused into my frame, 
under which, I felt assured, everything must succumb. 

a 1 1 am your height within the breadth of a hair,’ I slowly replied. 1 My limbs are cast 
in a mould, perhaps, a little coarser, and I give you to know that I am acquainted with all 
the marvellous legends of your skill, and your bravo-practice. Now I have one answer to 
make. It is about the same height into the street for either of us to be thrown,’—and I 
glanced with a sentiment of trepidation, totally overcome by my rage, into the great depth 
below. My reply to you will be a blow.’ He started with a kind of yell, and a frightful 
blasphemy crossed his lips. Aline was shuddering with horror, but utterly unstrung 
and paralysed. She could neither speak nor move. Her face, while the eyes were bent 
imploringly upon me, for I cast a glance upon her, was like the face of the dead. 

u For the creole, his beauty had become a horror. His veins were swollen like whip¬ 
cord upon his brows, the lips were parted, and a hideous snarl distorted them, exhibiting 
the wdiite and beautiful teeth. His eyes blazed like coals of fire, and if I was given to fear, 
I should have feared at that moment. 

u 1 Ah! I have a cane—it is well.’ He did not mutter the words, but with a hiss, like 
the breath of a crushed adder, the strong condensed hatred expressed itself, as he advanced 
with uplifted hand towards me. 

« 1 Take care!’ I said; and doubling my fist, with a single bound I dashed it in his face; 
and the strength, skill, and certainty with which the blow was given, did not merely knock 
him down, it lifted him fairly up from his feet, while bleeding and senseless he lay on the 
ground a collapsed mass. 

“ I waited a moment or two to see if he would recover his feet, for I was unconscious of 
the extent to which I had carried my punishment. Aline’s shrieks ran thrilling through 
the house. Mr. Munro and his guests flocked in. The scene was terror and confusion. 
I was unnaturally calm—I neither raved nor protested. I saw that one or two of the 


40 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


guests looked upon me with a sort of dismay, for which I could not account at the time. 
They were, I afterwards learned, full of fear on my account, for nothing short of my death, 
by duel or assassination, or some outrage still more atrocious, was expected at the hands of 
a man who made it his boast that he never forgave. 

u 1 In God’s name, Ralph! ’ said Mr. Munro to me, as others were applying restoratives 
to the creole; 1 what have you done ? how came all this about ?’ 

“ 1 He insulted me,’ I replied, with a tranquillity that astonished him. 1 He lifted up 
his cane to strike me. I struck him—that’s all.’ 

II 1 It can’t be all —though I do not doubt you,’ -was his observation ; i but still it can’t 
be all. I saw Aline here, I thought,’ and he glanced around. She was nowhere to be 
seen. ‘1 am certain I heard her voice.’ 

III It is true,’ I answered; 1 you did. She was here in the balcony. I came up to bid 
her adieu. De Souehe came—his insolence was unbounded, and I chastised it.’ 

“ ‘ I do not altogether blame you,’ returned Mr. Munro, in a low hurried voice; 1 for if 
this chastisement does him good, you will deserve the thanks of the community; but’—and 
he shook his head — 1 it is a most unhappy chance. Take my advice, Ralph; when you get 
within the walls of your college, remain there for a time at least.’ 

“ ( I mean to do so for a time at least,’ said I; 1 and now I will but go and bid Mrs. 
Munro and your kind daughters, u good-bye,” and depart.’ 

u As I was leaving the room, De Souehe faintly opened his eyes. A mouthful of brandy 
partially recovered him. Glaring wrathfully around the room, his eyes met mine. I thought 
that I never beheld so infernal a gleam as lighted them up. 

u 1 Come hither, young friend,’ said he, sitting half up, and speaking in an ironical and 
mocking bitterness; 1 come hither, and let me look at you a moment.’ 

u As tranquilly, to all outward seeming, as before, I advanced; but I knew 1 that my 
seated heart knocked at my ribs,’ though not from any fear. For the first time that hor¬ 
rible instinct, that depraved desire to destroy human life, came like a resistless tide into my 
heart. I met his glance with a hauteur beyond his own, and I think he quailed beneath it. 

“ 1 Tou strike well,’ said he slowly, but so bitterly. 1 You strike well; but—’, and his 
lips became blue ; 1 they strike well—who— strike last! ’ 

u I smiled, returning his look of hate with one of contempt and defiance. He turned 
to Mr. Munro, and said, with a loudness of tone which I felt was intended for my hearing, 
1 My worthy host, I must trouble you for a night’s hospitality, and—Aline shall be my 
nurse.’ 

u I walked up to the side of the couch where he reclined, and said, very simply, ‘ No, 
she shall not! ’ 

“ Every one looked in silent astonishment upon me. It seemed such a breach of all 
etiquette, such a rudeness, that Mr: Munro, with a face slightly flushed, said— 

“ ‘ Ralph—Mr. Potter, this must not be. In my own house I must regulate matters 
according to my pleasure.’ 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


41 


“ To this very hour I cannot conceive how I must have spoken or looked as I made my 
reply. There were at least a dozen men in the chamber. Strong bold men, who may be 
said to have possessed more than an average share of manly courage. They quailed, they 
turned pale, they fell back! 

“ 1 If you do not pledge me your word of honour, that Aline shall not attend to this man 
neither to-night, nor to-morrow, nor while he is beneath your roof, I pledge you my 
honour that I will fling him like a putrescent carcase into the street! ’ 

“ There must have been something so decisive and appalling about me at the instant, 
as to have wrought the desired effect. In a low faint voice, quite distinct from his other 
tone, De Souchd hurriedly said, 1 Yes, yes, promise him; I will dispense with her attend¬ 
ance. I—I did but jest.’ 

“ 1 1 promise,’ said Mr. Munro; and then with a bow, cold and courteous, I left the 
room, having risen in the estimation of the guests at least a million per cent. 

“ For my part, the whole was so rapid, so soon over, that it seemed like a dream. As 
I was descending the stairs, on the upper landing, Aline darted forth. She caught my 
hand, pressed it to her lips. 1 Thanks, thanks,’ she exclaimed; 1 you have acted bravely, 
nobly—thanks. Adieu! adieu! adieu! ’ and then she vanished. 

“ I was smiling and radiant—joyous, without being a braggart. I took a kind, a hasty 
leave of Mrs. Munro and her daughters, and an hour after beheld me within the college 
walls. 

“ Such was the result of my first meeting with Aline.” 

I placed the manuscript on the table, after having completed the first chapter, and with¬ 
out looking at Dewbank, drank off a couple or three glasses of wine, picked up a cigar, lit 
it, stretched my legs across a chair, and having made myself snug, opened the conversation 
with— 

“Well!” 

“Well!” 

“ What d’ye think of that, Ewart?” 

“ I’m all of a heap, and now stretching out again like a constrictor. I’m riled and 
darned, knotted and twisted, and feel forty thousand earthquakes about me,” was his exag¬ 
gerated reply. 

“ In that case you had better go to bed,” said I, “ and I will presently follow your 
example.” 

“ I shall dream about this cursed creole all night, I know,” said Ewart, pettishly; 
“ consarn him, I should like to try a hug with him. I thought Ralph was a half-cast 
crocodile, with a touch of the snapping turtle in his composition. Good night,” and away 

he went. 

The next morning, after having prepared ourselves in flowing ginghams and broad 
sombreros, to guard against a coup de soled } and made up our minds for a hot, dusty, 

L 


42 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


glorious summer-day’s excursion, we met at breakfast, and having made a few hasty com¬ 
ments upon the commencing portions of Ralph’s narrative, whereat he blushed excessively, 
and turned a shade paler and sadder, we made good stowage of a mighty breakfast, which 
was concluded just as the conveyance that was to take us to Wimille (a sort of landeau 
drawn by two horses) came up to the door. 

Our worthy host met us to pay his morning respects, politely saluted us, spoke to the 
gay and merry postilion, giving him a few grave charges regarding his own conduct and 
attention to the horses, wished us much pleasure, and off we went with blithe and cheerful 
hearts, fully determined to enjoy ourselves to the utmost. 

Leaving to the right hand a pleasant road leading to St. Omer, from the heights, as we 
rapidly passed on, appeared across the bright sea, like a long white line, serrated here and 
there, the English coast. The phantasmagoria of this scene is perfect. First is the undu¬ 
lating country, gay with verdure and villages—then the sea, all azure, as if rising up like a 
w r ondrous wall; this, in the distance, is broken by the white cliffs which tower up alone; 
and, finally, the sky itself of a paler, sweeter blue, lost in infinity above our heads. By and 
by, a rather picturesque defile of something like half a league leads to the Wimereux, which 
we crossed, and at the bottom of the valley stands Wimille, the place of our destination. 

It is a pretty place, with its quaint church, its irregular-looking houses threatening the 
long street, with its chestnut-trees, its copses, its distant fields, and its mountains contiguous, 
which, in any time but summer, would give it a gloomy aspect, save that in summer 
everything wears a smile, everything contributes to the beauty of the whole; and the 
embossed glades rising behind the church were to-day to be pressed by the prettiest peasant 
feet in the district. 

A rural fete in France is indigenous. It is as distinct a characteristic of the morale of 
the labourer as the English wake, or the coarser jovialities delineated by Teniers, by Jan 
Steen, by Ostade, or those still more ferocious excesses of low passions drawn by Heemskirk, 
when blood is up and knives are drawn. In these rural fetes, the peasants never get drunk. 
I never, at all events, beheld such a thing. The spectator, fresh from the rude clownish¬ 
ness of the lower classes, English or American country labourers, will be surprised at the 
politeness, the grace, the frank bonhommie , with which these pastoral joys are carried on. 
Some are not destitute of what you may term 11 loutishness j” but this is the result of shy¬ 
ness, a dread of women’s ridicule or laughter, a sort of awkwardness or embarrassment 
when a pair of fine eyes are mischievously following them about, robbing them of their 
presence of mind, playing the deuce with the heart, making them the slaves of rosy lips, rosy 
cheeks, pearly teeth, and a whole armament of little coquetries, tliat however time wears off, 
and to embarrassments succeeds boldness enough, for which the fair tyrant has to undergo 
the penalty of a kiss, a caress, or a dance, and so on—this embarrassment I have seen, but 
never any rudeness. Passion and rage I have witnessed, also jealousies and hatreds; 
but in the country they were, in some degree, dignified by a native refinement of disposi¬ 
tion I have not witnessed elsewhere. 
















////r// 





JOH.N TALLIS & COMPANY LONDON & NLW YORK 


























































































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


43 


Generally speaking, it is afternoon when the hustle of the fete begins, because so many 
come from a distance to it; in the same way that I have gone across the snow, on the plains 
north of Old Salem, with my dancing pumps in my pocket, heedless of the cold, and daring 
all the wolves in creation, in order to sport my person at a ball, where a smile from the 
belle of the party was reward enough for anything. They also avoid the extreme heat of 
the sun; and towards the soft evening, when the oblique rays only tint the sward with 
shadows, then grown longer, the mirth begins in earnest. 

We dismounted before entering the village, and leaving the postilion to put up the 
horses and the carriage, walked leisurely on, enjoying the cool shades which the trees threw 
down, admiring the boldness of the mountain scenery in the distance,—the labours of the 
husbandman, on the one hand, and, on the other, struck by the calcareous nature of the 
soil in many parts. We were now at Wimille. 

“There—there’s ‘my favourite,’” I suddenly exclaimed, as I cast a glance across a 
little garden thick with roses, where ivy and honeysuckle clung to the pillars of an old 
stone porch, belonging to what had once been a handsome country mansion of some pre¬ 
tension, standing isolated—one of the first habitations of the village. 

The figure on which my eyes rested for a moment was a most attractive one. It was 
that of a young, fair, and exquisitely beautiful girl, clad in the coif, the sacque, or some¬ 
thing like it, of an older time; the petticoat was richly woven, the apron was snowy. In 
fact, it was a dress such as our grandmothers used to wear at “home,” in days when we 
■were children, noting little of fashions, and heeding them still less. A flower was in her 
hand, and a bunch of keys hung by her side. 

A countenance more sweet and animated I have rarely witnessed. I was no less struck 
by her fair lovely face than by her fete dress, plainly a coquettish adaptation from the 
wardrobe of her great-aunt, or grand-mother, for she was evidently of English origin, and I 
determined to improve acquaintance with my favourite, if we should happen to meet when 
the dancing began. 

“ Well,” said Dewbank, “for a man like yourself, who finds a favourite in every pretty 
face, I must say, Crockett, that your taste is by no means bad.” 

“ Bad! ” I echoed with a laugh, “ that can hardly be possible. Henry Clay Crockett 
has an eye for—” 

“ A pretty foot and ancle, by all the Savannahs of the south,” cried Dewbank, catching 
my words, and thus hastily concluding the sentence for me; but as I glanced again upon 
the faultless form, there was no denying it. It was so. 

Ralph Potter was a little behind us, gazing with a fixed and tender expression upon the 
girl, who, half in a reverie, was leaning her arm upon the broken ballustrade of stone 
stretching from the porch. She heard my laugh, looked up, met Ralph’s earnest look, and, 
like a timid and startled fawn, hastily entered the door. 

“ There,” said I, in a tone of vexation, “you have done it now; and if we do not see 
her again for the next five hours, thank your own rudeness.” 


44 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


u Zounds, you’re as quarrelsome as ever a rowdy boy at Astor’s,” returned Dewbank 
petulantly. u It was not I who frightened her away. I reckon I’ve a more musical laugh 
than you have ; and if she mistook it for the bray of a hyena, I can’t help it.” 

I laughed, and onwards we went, in great hopes that when the fete was begun we should 
meet her again. As we advanced to the spot where a tent or two for the guests to take 
refreshment, beside its rude orchestra, had been erected, I began to be greatly amused at 
the motley and interesting groups already assembled. 

One or two huge vehicles, called the txpissiere , had already arrived, bearing their happy 
holiday cargo. There were young and old folk, gaily attired in rude dresses, which bor¬ 
rowed a charm from their happy faces, and the lucid air resounded with shouts of laughter, 
as they descended and began to gambol on the sward—the young ones, I mean; for the 
older people, with as much joy, but far more gravity, either promenade about and salute 
their old friends and acquaintance, or take their seats among the patriarchs of the place, 
and criticise the dancing on the green. 

It does one’s heart good to observe the varied moral phase which the peasant and 
bourgeoisie parties exhibit. There is always a rustic rivalry for the hand of the prettiest 
among the pretty girls; but this rivalry is also destitute of quarrelling or blackguardism. 
There may, if there happen to be one or two of those talking chatterers, who have wit 
enough to give the least vitality to their volubility, a conflict of words, which at short 
intervals is carried on for the whole of the dine. This seems to vary the amusement 
of the fete , though some of these are carried on with a solemnity of polite pleasure, 
where such frivolous badinage is soon absorbed in the stately gaiety of the whole merry¬ 
making. 

I confess that I have never been more delightfully moved by any human picture of 
happiness so great as that afforded by a fete in the open air. How charming it is in the 
open balmy air to watch the lovers pacing up and down the swarded alleys, beneath the 
cool shadows of the flowering chestnut-trees, or watch the still younger ones chasing each 
other round the vast trunks of gnarled and towering elms! And such was the scene we had 
here. There were joyous brunette features, whose mantling red in the cheeks outdid the 
ribbons in the cap, and whose silken eye-lashes were like finest silken threads pencilled on 
white brows, and whose eyes, beaming with mirth and good humour, received even an 
increased charm from the intonation of the voice 11 so gentle and low.” 

Some one or two who allowed the luxuriant tresses to flow profusely revelling down, 
reminded one with the handsome gipsy bonnets and rustic hats of George Morland’s pic¬ 
tures; while others again, who were more fashionable in their ideas, had tortured their 
heads “ a la turque,” u a la titus,” and reminded one of the Pompadours and Montespans 
of the old regime. There was a singular beauty about these one or two innovations of taste, 
which, after a moment’s reflection, I did not put my veto against. It must be indeed a 
frightful style of head-dress that can make a face, which God has already blessed with 
beauty, hideous or even ugly. There is originality even in the copy ; for those who had 







/ ?///' 
































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


45 


icfined upon art gave to their quaint dresses, their free transcriptions, a certain air of 
comical gravity which was infinitely amusing. 

On a little platform, as I have said, was erected the orchestra, and the three instruments 
began, after having been once tuned, to pour forth with great taste, and no despicable skill, 
some ot the delicious airs of Strauss, mingled with the masquerading harmonies of Musard. 

In the meantime, from the huge vans were sundry baskets taken down, filled with 
triumphant specimens of culinary art; and down on the grass, which had been some 
previous days carefully swept and rolled and watered, till it was now like a bank of velvet, 
sat down several of those little coteries , which were like so many family parties, and 
presently you heard the gurgling sound of the wine rushing forth, and the clinking of the 
glasses one against the other; the musical laughter of the girls, and the noisier mirth of the 
males, testified the unbounded satisfaction that all felt. 

W e in the meantime were idly strolling about, observant of all; and as mirth is catching, 
no doubt our countenances expressed a considerable degree of the pleasure we felt. Some 
of the older and the bolder ones, noticing us as strangers, and one or two recognizing coun¬ 
tenances as being transatlantic, addressed us politely, and in less than half an hour we found 
ourselves in the midst of one large aggregate—the smaller parties having joined us. We 
were on the best terms, filling and emptying the wine, trinquering with one and another, 
so that we felt as if we had known them for the last ten years. 

u Now, messieurs , mesdames ,” shouted out a hale and hardy-looking farmer, u one more 
glass of Ma^on, and let us see your heels tripping on the grass ; our worthy Orpheus here 
will think we are despising his art.” And so we all rose up, and selecting our partners, 
who without prudery, but rather with irresistible and graceful good nature, accepted us 
among the rest, and the dance began. 

I almost despair of describing the delicious sensation which the cool breeze, whispering 
through the green tracery above, and fanning our brows, gave to us; how with hearts like 
the hearts of joyous children—care being not simply driven limping away, but absolutely 
annihilated—we bounded along; and how we inhaled the splendid summer air, laden with 
fragrance, fresh and vivifying, as some fabled balm purified the lungs, and made us feel a 
happy intoxication. Ralph Potter was sedately joyous, but his very melancholy was abso¬ 
lutely charming to the village maidens, who hazarded a hundred sly conjectures about him ; 
and, certainly, as the exercise had driven the paleness from his cheek, and replaced it with 
a rich and ruddy gloAV, with his brown curls, and white forehead, I think he must have 
struck them as being a singularly handsome young fellow. 

As for myself—hem! Well, I flirted about, and very agreeable, I have no doubt, I 
made myself. Dewbank was in his glory; and the loud laughter which he elicited at 
times inclined me to believe that he was giving them very amusing ideas with regard to 
his countrymen. In short, it was a real ” fete / and as I actually ceased to be an observer, 
having become, with all my heart and soul, a participator in all that went on, I can give but 

a very unintelligible description of it after all. 

. M 


46 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


To crown the whole, “ my favourite” at last made her appearance, leaning on the arm 
of a fine good-looking young man, to whom, I was told, she was betrothed; we all danced 
with her in turn, and ere we parted were on the best of terms with her and her fiance. 

Then came the hour of parting. It must come in every case to every one of us—in the 
happiest of parties. I felt inexpressibly chagrined at this; the reader may believe me, 
because with me it was a parting for ever from a society to which I had been closely knit 
for a few hours ;—with them it was only an “ adieu” till another day : they would meet 
again ; but by that time I should be with my friends, perhaps thousands of miles away. I 
was sad and melancholy because these fancies came to me, and I must and will record it, 
that at kissing the hands of several of our fair partners, there were sorrowful glances, and 
something like a tear bedewed the eyes of one or two, for they felt that we were strangers 
who had enjoyed their gladness, and they were grateful to us. 

Volatile and warm-hearted people, how much do I love and admire you! I have 
wandered over land and sea, and have looked upon many nations and people, and I can 
always recur to this little fete at Wimille, where a few children of the soil met to dance 
with a feeling of serene pleasure which baffles me to describe. 

We took, then, our farewells beneath the flowering chestnut-trees; we bade them our 
adieus, and of “my favourite” the last,—and mounting our carriage, drove back to Boulogne, 
as the shadows of evening were falling. 











'$//•/ v/4' 




































































































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


47 


CHAPTER II. 

part's. 

Paris, without doubt, is worthy not only of a chapter, hut volumes in itself; hut, in the 
meantime, I am not so ungrateful to nature and to man, for the many beauties I see in my 
way, to pass from place to place with a transilience which leaves every intervening space 
without some trifling memorial. 

The following morning, therefore, having settled our moderate hills at the hotel, and 
taken our places in the coupe, which, with a little extra gratuity, we secured for ourselves, and 
surrendering our luggage to the conclucteur , we mounted in good spirits, and were soon on 
the road. Ralph Potter began to prepare his hook and pencils, while, in the meantime, 
Dewbank amused me with the cosmopolite knowledge he had picked up at Boulogne, talked 
unceasingly of the pretty girls of Wimille, commented on the wines and the charges, and 
praised himself for the excellent manner in which hitherto all his arrangements had been 
carried out. 

I was disappointed at losing the huge boots of the postilions, the reins made of knotted 
cords, and the almost traditionary slowness of the ark-like vehicle, which was pretty full; 
but as they were mostly an uninteresting group, I have nothing to relate of them. We 
went along at a tolerably smart pace, and the country began to broaden out gloriously 
before us. After a journey of about two-and-twenty miles, the traveller arrives at Mon- 
treuil, where we stopped to dine; and remounting once more, passed through several little 
villages, and entered Abbeville, where we took advantage of the diligence stopping, in 
order to take a cursory peep at a place of some antiquity, now having an appearance of 
quietly crumbling to decay. The colossal statues adorning the church, dedicated to a Breton 
saint (St. Winifred), attracted our attention, as well as the Gothic towers, which had an air 
of sombre magnificence as they loomed largely in the haze of the sultry sky. Old houses 
of quaint shape, built principally of wood, have a very picturesque appearance; and here 
and there modern brick buildings give, by contrast, an aspect of stiff formality to the 
streets. 

We took a walk on the ramparts, which are well shaded with trees, and though the 
prospect was not particularly striking, there was a certain unique simplicity about the old 
town, not disturbed by very modern, at least not daring, innovations, which was exceed- 
ingly pleasing. 


48 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


At Abbeville we deviated from the route a little, as we were desirous of passing through 
Amiens, and, if need be, of spending a day there. And therefore, taking the same places 
in another diligence , we began to cross several small hills, from which we could observe 
that the general aspect of the country was improving; and without wearying the reader 
with details, suffice it to say that we arrived in due time at the ancient capital of Picardy. 

If I have passed over with seeming indifference so many places in the locality of the 
route w r e had taken—for instance, the plains of Azincour and Crecy,—it is because, being in 
the diligence, I could not visit them ; and, to confess the truth, they lacked an attraction 
for me at the time. There are few places in this part of France which have not some 
historic recollection attached to them ; but, as I am anything but a historian, it is only pf 
the places on which I planted my foot that I will speak—and they, in many instances, are 
too “ numerous to mention.” 

We stopped at the Hotel de la Poste, where there was ample accommodation, and not 
particularly costly ) and after a short consultation, made up our minds to stay there for 
the night. In the morning, after a recherche breakfast, during which I gravely taxed 
our financier, Dewbank, with the extravagant amount I should expect our bills to mount 
up to by the time we got to Paris, and to which remonstrance he merely made a wry 
face, we sallied forth. 

Being situated upon the Somme, this town has evidently availed itself, so to speak, of 
its commercial advantages. As a royal court, and a bishop’s see, it has some pretensions; 
but the peace of Amiens, concluded in 1802, has given it a little bit of a niche in the annals 
of history. Formerly it was doubtless of more consequence, for people do not build such 
magnificent cathedrals for nothing. Its antiquity is marked by the ruins of an old church, 
said to have been erected in the seventh century by a worthy creature canonized as St. 
Bathilde. 

As a capital, and as a trading town, it has become of consequence. As the chief city of 
Picardy, it must have seen many vicissitudes; and as also, in the course of twelve centuries 
at least, even ashlar churches cannot stand the wear and tear of time ; so, also, is there a 
rejuveniscence observable, for, as old houses and streets decay, and gradually go with 
edifying calm into the dust, are new streets, broader, clearer, more commodious, erected; 
and Amiens has its velvet manufactories, its handsome shops, its spacious squares, its 
fashionable promenades, and is a martyr, to a considerable extent, to the innovations of the 
present day. As for us } who express this said innovation by a pithy and comprehensive 
sentence, u Go a-liead !” we had nothing to object to in the matter. Still it presented a 
singular contrast. There stood the grand, grim, and Gothic pile, flinging a shadow, as if 
half angrily, upon the youthful flauntings of new streets and domiciles, here and there 
rearing their heads. It was a gigantic old age beginning to get paralyzed, yet with its 
Briareus hands threatening to strangle the new babe—engendered out of enterprise, capital, 
steam, and railways—at its birth,—which, as yet, however, is not done. 

From the town we crossed the river, after strolling about for some time, and walking up 



























































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


49 


a little distance had a fine view of the church, the old picturesque houses, with here and 
there, in their court-yards and gardens, clumps of trees, workshops, and barges on the river, 
and the river itself as a foreground. 

The church is a piece of grand, ornate, and imposing architecture, rarely surpassed in 
its detail by anything I saw on the Continent. There is, in this class of architecture, a 
singular correctness of similarity about the whole style. One end has its vast and massive 
buttresses, and the other has its huge and frowning towers. A thin, airy, insignificant 
spire, springing out of the centre of the great roof, is in frivolous contrast with the solid 
proportions of the whole, and is evidently either the addition or an alteration of some 
artist of a remoter time than its origin, which goes back as far as 1220, a purely Gothic 
time. The western front of the cathedral is not to be surpassed for its florid arabesques, 
if such a Moorish word may be used with regard to that miraculous and secret art of archi¬ 
tecture, which, in an age of unbounded ignorance, must be one of the abstract wonders of 
the world. 

The eye most unaccustomed to examine architectural proportions, may, perhaps, be the 
most critical and detective, after all; and when we recollect that this, with others, was built 
in an age when ignorance—literal, unquestioned ignorance—was the order of the day,—when 
men were barbarous and scarcely semi-savage,—when whatever art there existed was in an 
almost contemptibly incipient state,—we say, thus gazing on such surpassing monuments of 
art, the perfection, the geometrical accuracy of their proportions, their grand and majestic 
attitude, their colossal vastness, must strike one with wonder,—and the gazer asks by whom 
and how were these built? 

We can only conjecture that, in the secret societies of the freemasons, the art was 
handed down to its members as a sacred tradition ; and though no connection can be traced 
between the Gothic style, and the style in which we may imagine Solomon’s temple to 
have been erected, yet the laws of proportion, of harmony, and of strength, are the same, 
save only, that that in the anterior style, squareness and solidity, with many internal pil¬ 
lars, has, in the latter case, given place to the groined arch and the gigantic dome—the 
arch, however, above all. I am not going to tell you, my reader, about the eighty-two 
pillars, and the forty-four that are detached, superb as they are, nor of the marvellous 
resonance of some of them when merely touched. We are merely passing to Paris by the 
diligence, and have called at Amiens on our way. So we give the guide a giatuity, which 
redoubles his politeness, and go forth. We had turned back from the river-side, and 
wandered around the basement and interior of this venerable relic of the middle ages, and 
we now began to stroll about the town ; and going a little distance out of it, came once 
more to the meadows by the river, admiring the canals which the river forms. We went 
to the Porte d’Abbeville, and then journeyed to where the Autoy, a grand promenade, is 
islanded by waters of the river Cette. Colbert, it is stated, employed thirty thousand woik- 
men at the manufactures which the Cette and the Somme give motion to, though now the 
trade is fallen off. 

N 


50 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


A very pretty picture, which Ralph sketched down, was formed by the broad-beamed 
boat, carrying a market-woman and her ass across the river to a nearer path, leading, 
most probably, to some comfortable farm. The pollard willows shadowed in the stream, 
the town in the distance, the towers, the lofty spire, and the lucid sky for a background, 
gave a picture of repose, heightened by the murmuring plash of the river, which was dreamy 
in the extreme, and I was falling into some reverie, when Ewart tapped me on the shoulder, 
with his everlasting, 1 What on ’arth are you thinking of now?” 

As it was approaching the time when we must resume our seats in the diligence, we 
hastened back, and, as it was market day, we had the opportunity of admiring the quaint 
and striking Picard costume. In a few instances the men had their heads powdered, and 
the women wore blue petticoats of remarkable fashion. I cannot say, however, but that I 
was pleased with both, though it rather jarred upon me to see how pertinaciously people in 
the old world will stick to old world modes, manners, and fashions; but it struck me that, 
as at the particular time I had nothing better in the way of fashion to offer them, it would 
be preferable to let them remain as they were. 

We passed through Clermont, a very handsome town, as I thought, where we saw the 
towers of a fine old castle, once belonging to the Cond£ ; the prospect from the terrace of 
which is stated to be beautifully diversified, but which I do not avow for, and came to 
Creil, an old town, situated upon the river Oise, where, on looking at the castle, you think 
of Charles the Sixth, who was shut up there in order that cards might be invented for him, 
and Hoyle write books on whist; and, in addition, that some thousands of suicides should 
darken the annals of humanity yearly, arising from the passion of gaming. It may be 
said, that men would play with pebbles, or, like Teniers’ boors, play at push-penny. That 
may be so, if cards were never invented; but I will be sworn that I should not blow out 
my brains at push-penny, whereas cards are more refined agents of ruin. 

From Creil, Avhich we soon left behind us, we anticipated the beauties of Chantilly, 
which has become famous for its races. On our way we passed a large market-waggon, 
which Ralph, who exceedingly admired the horses, sketched in his book ; and at the 
moment, I thought it a group which Wouvermans, that prince of horse-painters, could not 
have disdained to halt and look once more behind him. 

The animals were of the true Flanders breed, four in number, and looked, with their 
sleejc coats, and massive though calm heads, with their strong handsome harness, as 
genuine portions of the landscape, and as absolutely belonging to it. The large lumbering 
waggon, with its capacious covering, and its as capacious emptiness, appeared as if it had 
been disgorging the fruits of the earth, garden and field stuff, for man’s use at the neigh¬ 
bouring town. In the front sat a woman, listlessly gazing forth on the landscape, or rather 
half dozing, or counting, probably, the profits of the journey. In the road was the bluff driver, 
arranging some portion of the horses’ head-gear. We had but barely time to notice these 
things ere our diligence swept by, and soon after we entered Chantilly, after passing by 
the green umbrageous forest, beneath which we wished to wander. 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


51 


Chantilly, that rose to prosperity under the house of Condd,—where you see the little 
theatre that reminds you of Bacine, of Boileau, and Moliere; where you admire the palace 
in which resides the Montmorences, and the princes of Bourbon, great historical names,— 
belongs to annals ot blood and crime, and great catastrophes of every kind. All that 
remains of the vast and elegant pile, however, are a couple of chateaux, looking venerable 
in their great age—the chateau Bourbon, the chateau d’Enghien, and the stables, that are 
in themselves like a palace. As we intend to tell you about a day spent at Chantilly in 
another place, we shall reserve our description of the race-course and its imported fashions, 
as well as its imported rascalities and vice. 

The country was now really beautiful, wearing that charming, indistinct, undulating 
aspect, bounded only by far blue hills and azure skies, while cottages, villages, and cha¬ 
teaux, with delicious groves, stately woods, and broad rivers, filled up the front of the 
picture. 

Past the forest of Lys, ascending the mountain of La Morlaic, crossing the river Thdve, 
and between the enchanting woods of Herivaux and Boyaumont, we enter into Luzarches, 
where, in times more primitive, kings of the Carlovingian race dwelt. We saw the ruins 
of the two old castles, which, at one period, would have dazzled the most fastidious eye by 
their barbaric splendour. Bums—crumbling ruins—and silence, now only attest that such 
things were: but it is astonishing how suggestive these old places are; you do not even 
look upon them without thinking of Charles Martel and Charlemagne. 

We were now rapidly advancing towards Paris, and our hearts beat high with expecta¬ 
tion. The rumbling and the rattling of the conveyance precluded any interchange of 
thought in the shape of conversation ; we contented ourselves by occasionally drawing each 
other’s attention to some object of beauty or interest on the road, whether village, forest, or 
castle; and then we began to fall each one into his own reverie, Balph being, however, 
the most industrious ; for, as well as the shakings would allow him, he was scratching down 
the principal objects that attracted his attention. Splendid specimens of architecture, 
gardens, parks, and fountains, appeared in plenty. 

Ecouen, a very charming town from the distance, attracted our notice by a handsome 
palacial mansion, standing on the summit of a shady hill. This also commemorates the 
names of the lordly Montmorences,—and not long after we entered into St. Denis. 

The country, with its quaint masses of building, embosomed in green wildernesses, 
where fountains leap and sparkle in the sun, wears a varied but ever agreeable aspect. I 
felt as if I could have gone on with my travelling knapsack on my shoulder, and staff in 
hand, lying like a Sybarite here and there beneath the vines, or musing like a poet over 
some sublime spot, where either nature arrested my attention, or a reminiscence of the 
past, with its traditionary lore, flitted across the mind. This I add, it appears, when I am 
entering into the city of the tombs of kings. 

St. Denis is marked, like a huge milestone in the smiling landscape, by the lofty spire 
of the great abbey. It is here where the kings of France lie in solemn conclave from the 


52 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


time of Dagobert the breechless, the first, we may add, of the u sans culottes ;” that is to say, 
they did, —with their monuments and mural emblazonry, those wondrous silent statues that, 
in their stern sleep, seem ready to waken up at the first stirring blast of a trumpet,—though 
they do not now, for at the first revolution they were disinterred, and the bones of 
generations scattered like oblations to the winds of heaven. Of late the antiquary and the 
enthusiast have recreated this fine old pile, which threatened to go to decay; but as there 
is with us a sort of conservative principle—in this age I mean—it has been restored with 
much magnificence, and a chapter of superannuated bishops have made a chapel of ease of 
the whole. The abbey itself is in a sad state of desecration, for the soldiers swear, and 
smoke, and drink wine, within the old walls, and the discipline of a barrack has superseded 
the worship of God. What would you have ?—for many ages the military power was 
all subservient to “ bell, book, and candle ;” thanks to a latitude of thinking—Voltairism, 
and sans culottism ; in short, to the Revolution—the position of things is changed. 

We now journeyed along a road whose formal stiffness contrasted strongly with the 
champaign verdure we had already passed through. The road is an admirable one; broad, 
and lined with a double row of trees, which is more artistic than picturesque, and pain¬ 
fully impresses you with its rigidity of style. In the time of Louis Quatorze it was the 
style to put nature in stays, and place patches on her cheeks. She only looked like an 
elegant court harlot after all. 

To the right rose Montmartre, the “ primrose hill” of Paris, crowned with one of the 
prettiest villages in France. It was severely handled during the last days of Napoleon; 
but cannon which knocked down houses, spared the trees, and green copses are seen in all 
directions. We entered Chapelle, which gave name to a poet who is not much known, 
and entering the Porte St. Denis, after a little argument with the guard, were in the city 
of Paris. 

I have a story to tell relating to a grand old ruin which we passed on the road, and 
which, while Dewbank is arranging our out-of-doors affairs, and Ralph Potter is gone forth 
to walk on the neighbouring boidevard, I may as well dot down. 

Some miles from Clermont, on the right bank of the Oise, I beheld the lofty ruins of a 
mansion, which, by its venerable and moss-grown turrets, its crumbling gables, rising above 
the lofty and waving woods, (the quaint architecture dating back for some centuries,) had a 
solemn and impressive beauty as seen from the distance, that particularly interested me in 
its past history. By inquiry and research, I obtained materials for the following dark 
chronicle, which was strikingly characteristic of an age of violence and crime,—expressive 
also of the strength of those depraved passions, avarice and hate, when all instinctive 
restraints are blinded by ignorance of moral obligations. It may be called (thinking of 
Rollo) the story of the 11 Bloody Brother ;” we shall, however, term it 
• 

® ©hromde of the CDtsc. 

In the days of King-(no matter whom, but very long ago, however), there dwelt in this 



THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


53 


noble mansion two brothers, who were descended of a great and ancient family, whose 
wealth and traditionary influence, added to the favours they enjoyed under the reigning 
kings, were proverbial. 

These stately lands and extensive treasures were held by the elder-born of the brothers, 
whom we shall call Landeric; while the younger, Bragellon, who had long since gone through 
his patrimony by gaming and excess, now lived with the elder, dependent upon a bounty 
that was princely. But his sullen and saturnine disposition liked not this; it galled his proud 
dark nature to be thus supported. He was courageous, but reckless; and this latter quality 
made him dream evil. 

Landeric had a noble presence, and a kind, loyal disposition. Gay and volatile, he loved 
song, dance, and revel; and he was thoughtless to a fault, saying things without meaning 
them, that pained Bragellon to hear. 

Thus, though both differing in almost everything, yet both young, both gay—the one 
from disposition, the other from custom, and a desire to drown thoughts in the dissipation 
of the wine, or in gaming, or in any mad frolic; they would sally forth at times from the 
old castle, and with a number of other companions of their own age and rank, they would 
rouse up the streets of the ancient town, till the quaint walls and old hostels echoed 
again. 

On this particular afternoon, they were, with* a number of other gallants, assembled in a 
tavern, that was held in great repute for the good wine and cheer of the portly host. This 
worthy was in much deserved estimation; and a table of carved oak with sturdy legs 
groaned beneath the full jars so plentifully furnished them. 

Landeric and Bragellon were seated at one end, and before them lay dice and cards of 
very curious form and device, which they had evidently been using. 

“What! Bragellon!” cried the elder, “mournest thou the loss of a few gold coins'? 
Pshaw! double the stakes—take a cup and throw again; I tell thee, like a good brother 
as I am, thou slialt be no loser—not a jot.” 

u I drink to thee, Landeric,” replied Bragellon, whose dark though fine face exhibited 
great moroseness; “ and though I thank thy liberal promises for the future, which I know 
thou wilt keep, being no promise-breaker; yet the loss of a few golden crowns hath com¬ 
pletely emptied my pockets.” 

11 Emptied thy pockets! Well, pardieu^ it is no wonder if thou growest sad when thy 
purse is so sickly. Come, I will forgive thee thy moody fit; there’s my purse, pick it up, 
man, and be gay, as gay as I am,” exclaimed Landeric, as, tossing it over to his brother, 
it fell at his feet with a clang, that called the attention of all present to the affair. 

11 That Landeric has the heart of a prince,” cried one. 

11 And possesses the treasures of a Croesus,” added another. 

« Faith! I cannot but grieve with Bragellon,” cried a dissipated young noble; “ for 
there’s but a step, as ’twere, between Mm and the wealth; and this devil of a Landeric to 
be the first-born of his own mother—eh!” 


0 


54 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


“ I could not well belong to two/’ cried Landeric, laughing heartily. “ And I will wed 
right soon.” 

“ The daughter of the rich Castellan,” shouted one. 

“ With his money he might marry Jove’s wife,” cried another. 

“Ay—with the youngest daughter of De Herivault—with Bathilde,” was the cold 
remark of Bragellon. His voice startled them. When the gold fell at his feet, this act of 
charity, that was so unconsciously ostentatious, made the black blood of Bragellon scald 
his soul, as if he were in enduring torments; and while he stooped to pick it up, the gibe, 
the scorn, and the strange jarring of tone, in which the dissipated noble lamented the elder 
brother’s success,—then Bragellon felt truly that his brother teas the only step between him 
and the golden dream he coveted for a reality. 

“But methinks,” said one, “that Bragellon here was her very lover. Ban it not so?” 
And he cast an inquiring glance around him. 

Bragellon, with the same cold voice, replied, “ I have lost a stake. A wealthier man 
can cry loudly, ‘Boom for me!’ Behold him!” and he smiled on Landeric, who, 
quaffing his wine, w r as still gay as a lark. 

“ My brother,” replied he gently, “ it was not my wealth that found me favour; the field 
was open for all, and I had not a denier when I troth-plighted the fair lady.” 

“ I tell thee,” insisted Bragellon, “ th^t money doth make a difference, and that thou 
and I will find out ere long. Come, you see, friends, that my good brother’s bounty has 
furnished me anew. Dice! ho there! fresh dice! ” 

“ But,” replied Landeric, with real emotion, laying his arm on Bragellon’s hand, “ do 
not say my ‘ bounty,’—I meant it not so. Thou art brother to me: kinship like that may 
not be disregarded.” 

“ Is it,” whispered Bragellon, with a grim smile,—“ is it brotherly-like to step before me 
in the good favour of Bathilde?” 

“Have we not discussed it before this?” asked Landeric with impatience, as he rose; 
“ why talk farther, to raise ill-will between us?” 

“ Well, be it so: come hither and try another game;” and they both sat to play again, 
while the rest looked on. 

In two or three throws, Bragellon had lost the purse which he had but a short while 
back received. 

“ By the bones of Charlemagne,” muttered Bragellon, as he drained a bowl, “but you 
must have the fiend’s luck. My war-horse against a thousand crowns!” “Agreed,” re¬ 
plied Landeric, carelessly. They played again, and the younger brother again lost. 

“ Your horse goes fast, my Bragellon,” exclaimed the young noble who had made so 
luckless a remark regarding Landeric. 

“ My armour and fighting sword! Some wine there, ho! Come, do not hesitate; take 
all, or give me a chance;—and, mark me! you must not return them ; ” this he added in a 
deep-meaning whisper to his brother. 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


55 


“ I will not,” replied the indifferent Landeric. The dice rattled—the fates were still 
against Bragellon, and the armour and sword went after the rest. 

11 1 have only my dagger left, and that I must keep to—” his eyes changed their expres¬ 
sion, as did the termination of his sentence,—“ to eat my broken victuals with, when I come 
to your battery-batch, my brother.” 

Landeric only smiled at his pettishness, and thought, 11 To-morrow I will make him 
smile again. I will load his horse with costly trappings, and change his battered breast¬ 
plate for the golden mail of Lombardy, and send them to him: he shall know that I love him.” 

A trumpet-blast roused the revellers, and the young gamesters also arose. 

“ We are summoned to the tilt-yard,” exclaimed Landeric joyously; “’tis better than dice: 
come, come!” 

u I cannot tilt against you to-day,” said Bragellon, in a dry, mocking voice; a but I have 
something very curious to show you in the evening.” 

u Something curious! ” echoed Landeric; “well, in the evening be it; and now, brothers, 
one cup more. To Bathilde, the beautiful!” 

The toast was noisily drank, and Landeric hurled the crystal vase against the wall. 
“ ’Tis the last health I shall drink from that,” exclaimed he. 

Bragellon smiled—nay, he had even become gay, and laughed as some of them condoled 
with him upon his losses. “ Has he really drank his last health?” he muttered; and the 
smile was very singular, while the eyes were lurid. 

The duties of the young soldier nobles were over in the earlier part of the afternoon, 
which was sunny and joyous; and the fragrant air beat freshly against the heated brows of 
Landeric, as crossing the great tilt-yard of the Castellan’s palace, he passed beneath a great 
archway, where there were suites of apartments belonging to De Herivault’s young daughter, 
Bathilde. Deep silence and strict order reigned in those walls, which was in great con¬ 
trast with the noise and tumult of the guard-room he had not long left. 

In the meantime there followed him, unnoticed, a tall figure muffled up in a large 
battle-cloak. He was unchallenged of the sentinels, for they, on the contrary, presented 
their pikes in salutation while he went by. It was Bragellon, who, with a frowning brow 
and a darkened look, kept his brother in his jealous eye; and as he beheld him pass into 
the apartment occupied by Bathilde, a scowl of hatred, and of the bitterest malice, passed 
over his countenance, which gave it a perfectly demoniac expression. 

For, while Bragellon watched his brother enter the gorgeous apartment, his broad 
chest and tall form shook with the violence of his rage, and his hand unconsciously griped 
his heavy dagger, all that he was now possessed of; while a diabolic gleam swept over his 
otherwise fine features, which utterly marred their grace, and told how implacable he had 

become. 

Passing the tapestries, he gained entrance into the same apartment, and his eyes were 
almost blinded as he beheld, through the opening folds, the beautiful Bathilde leaning upon 
the breast of the young soldier. 


56 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


Tail, fair, and of extraordinary loveliness, she was a woman to fill a man’s heart with 
undying love; and as she turned up her tender eyes to meet the ardent gaze of Landeric, 
Bragellon could have stabbed them both where they stood. 

“ Bathilde for a bride, and her enormous wealth as dowry, are two things worth playing 
the darkest—deadliest game for,” he muttered through his set teeth. “ But I must go and 
prepare the curious sight which I have promised my generous, good, elder brother;” and 
while he beheld Landeric pressing his lips to her fair brow, he ground his teeth with a 
savage gesture, and silently quitted the room. 

Bragellon was on the battlements of the royal castle, for there was war in the land, and 
the nobles were round their king. Being the officer of the night, he had several arrange¬ 
ments to make and orders to give. There were many soldiers and inferior officers about 
him, and as he despatched them to their various posts on their several duties, his impatience 
grew beyond all bounds. “Landeric will come soon—soon!” he muttered. 

The eve had come on, and the sky, so cloudless and bright all day, now began to darken 
and lour; and the shifting vapours that hung on the skirt of the moon took fantastic shapes, 
wreathing themselves into forms which had their type in the dark stormy soul of Bragellon. 

The younger brother, as he walked to and fro on the towering battlements, drew his 
cloak around him; and as he gave vent to the projects which the “attempt, and not the 
deed,” as yet, so vividly portrayed, an exultation and delirious joy took possession of him, 
so that, while he tossed his arms, and held them out towards the sombre heavens, the moving 
of the blast filled the folds of his cloak, and bore it streaming far behind, making him 
appear, as he stood on the very edge of the giddy height, like an unholy being invoking 
presences of evil. 

“ Poison or steel,” he muttered, “ which ? Both—both leave evidences, and the coward 
or the fool is often a witness against himself—they are unsafe. There is the livid and 
swollen corpse on the first; and the bloody stabs leave gules too glaring on the keenest 
weapon. I'll none of that—no!” he added, as he bent his tall figure, and looked into the 
chasm below, where lay bridge, and moat, and stone pavement. “ No! more than two 
hundred feet below, death waits there in the darkness! There is no witness, and there is 
also that fine abstraction— accident , so common in this world, to account for it. Stand, ho! ” 
he cried suddenly, “who goes there?” He paused, and looked keenly around him, but 
beheld nothing. “I’ll swear I heard a footstep,” he added. “Ho!” but as he called to 
the sentinels, and gazed along the level platform he saw not a soul, and his own shouts 
appeared to be drowned by a keen, roaring blast, that sang around the great tower. And 
yet he could not but imagine, that behind him stalked and turned a phantom, with a hideous 
face and terrible eyes, though he could not see it. “Well,” he muttered, gathering his 
energies, “ men who dare do these things, must be prepared to meet the consequences; and 
while mine are as yet but shadows, I will dream of fear no further.” 

Still he could swear that he heard a step. It w r as measured, martial, firm,—certainly 
it was; for coming up the steps at the far end of the platform, the partial moon shone on 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


57 


a gleaming helmet, and presently there stalked towards him the young nobleman, ere this 
spoken of. 

“What! Bragellon, you keep late watch here to-night?” he said, advancing towards 
him. 

“ Not so,” replied the other; “the moon is not long since up.” 

“ This part of the battlement, I note, wants looking to,” said the noble by way of com¬ 
ment. “ The chains in the stonework, to sling the arbalasts by, or fasten cradles over for 
missiles, are in very ill condition. It will be well for you to see to it; some one may fall 
over else. Give you good night, if I see you not anon in the great hall. 

u Good night—good night!” replied Bragellon hastily, as the noble passed away from 
him, and disappeared by the staircase of a round turret at the extremity of the battlements. 

u Is he the devil, after all,” muttered the brother, as he still gazed on the empty space, 
“ that he has divined my purpose? if so, I will not disappoint him. I promised to show 
Landeric something ,—but it will be a face other than that of Bathilde’s,—ghastlier, 
deadlier! ” 

He then took his dagger, and, by sheer strength, pulling away from the embrasure a 
great engine used to cast arrows and javelins, dug out some of the stonework where chains 
were fastened; and, in a few minutes, looked complacently on the completed work—and 
waited. 

The moon gleamed palely from on high, but, beneath her, black funereal clouds sailed 
along. 

Landeric was come, and stalking to and fro, was leaning on Bragellon’s arm, laughing, 
chatting—merry as the morning lark. u And so you’ve been busied with this clumsy 
machinery have you?” he inquired. “ Truly, I have spent my time far more pleasantly, 
than looking over these grim engines of slaughter.” 

“ Doubtless,” smiled Bragellon; “ but, good brother, while you are here, give me your 
aid a moment, and you shall see what I promised you.” 

“ What must I do?” asked the willing Landeric. 

« Take that chain, and aid me to draw this carriage back to the embrasure. Beware 
your foot on the edge,—nay, ’tis a perilous depth. Have you hold?” 

“ I have,” replied Landeric, straining to his task; one foot being on the very verge of 
the abyss, but his other foot firmly planted forward, and a good grasp of the chain assured 

him he was safe. 

“ Now, heave!” cried Bragellon. 

In an instant, the dagger which, unperceived, had fastened the false chain gave way, 
and the form of Landeric was seen rushing downward,—his glance of mingled terror and 
reproach being fixed on the terrible face of Bragellon, who stood on the coping and gazed 

below. 

A slight plash came upward from the moat—Bragellon listened; down below was silence. 

<( i t ^ done,” said Bragellon, with a horrid laugh, “ and now shall I be a rich man, and 

P 


58 


THE AMEKICAN IN EUKOPE. 


wed with Bathildej” but as he spoke, the wind filled his ample cloak with a hurricane blast, 
and swept him over the precipice, where at the bottom he lay a shapeless mass, soddened 
in his own blood and shattered bones! 

If I should happen for awhile to say nothing of my two friends; if I do not even speak 
of myself, which will be very astonishing, it will be because the name Paris! Paris! Paris! 
recurs to me perpetually; because it makes me an enthusiast; because it is the type of the 
past, and the future; because, with its wondrously protean, its kaleidoscopic features, it is 
for ever offering to you its present in every form and shape—in majesty and abjectness, in 
greatness and in humility, in wealth, and in the extreme of misery. 

Paris! what crimes, what benevolence, what virtues, and what gigantic vices are 
embodied in that name! It is suggestive of all things in the extremest degree. The city 
of palaces and penury—the city of lofty deeds, and of the vilest brigandage—the city of 
honour and of degradation. In fact, while telling my reader all this, he will say to him¬ 
self, u But this is the epitome of all great cities.” 

I grant it to be so, and yet, because these names have become traditional from Clovis, 
Charlemagne, Saint Louis, and Napoleon, there are others upon record, which are the 
synonyme of crime. 

In effect, it is the city of monarchies and of republics, of thrones and barricades, and 
presents, in the most unique manner, a hundred thousand men who divide, with pointed 
pikes, against each other, and who, by a single word, will cast their weapons down, and 
rush into each other’s arms. No impulse is more intense with the true Parisian than 
affection. I mean that humanity which, with its under-currents, rolls softly onward, and 
only requires to be disturbed for a moment to be acknowledged. 

In reading a detail of the reign of terror, you would say that ferocity was the leading 
characteristic. Bead farther into the revelations of the despotism of these reigns of riot, 
debauchery, and demoralization; those horrible houses of infamy which kings built, in 
order to destroy the daughters of the people—those orgies of the regency—those aristocratic 
scoundrelisms—and you will say, u they, the people, are paying off a debt; what wonder 
if they give a little extra interest while paying off the principal.” 

Do you wonder why the best of the Bourbons was beheaded ? Was it not from of old 
an institution that the sin-offering, the expiation, must be the best, the purest of the kind ? 
Was not Louis the Sixteenth the grandson of Louis the Fifteenth? and had not Louis the 
Fifteenth inherited from his grandfather, the Quatorze, all the vices which Juvenal parades 
in such a terrible manner. Did not the fifteenth Louis have such a place as the Parc-aux- 
cerfs , where Madame de Maintenon played a part which makes the blood curdle with rage 
and hatred ? and is there not the name of a horrible demirep, that of Du Barry, mixed up 
in the infamous business ? 

For our part the mystery is, why the people waited so long. Louis the Sixteenth, a 
kind, humane, wrong-headed man; but not a man who is accused of robbing a mother of 



K.E 


TTE : 



HOSPICE DE BICETRE 













































































VH9 aa iva anaavHO vi aa Hnainaxi 

















































































































































































































ISLE DE LA CITE AND NOTRE DAME 

PARI S . 



VIEW ON THE SEINE 





P AR1 S 








































. 















































































. 



















































































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


59 


her daughter, and making her infamous, and of sending the father, whose nature grows 
into fire with his sublime wrath, to moan in the infernal Bastile by a lettre de cachet. In 
him, however, in his blood, in that of the Expiation, was the huge mass of wrongs accumu¬ 
lated for centuries, removed, purged, cleansed. 

The great characteristic of Paris is, on one day lightness and beauty, on another, gloom 
and dirt; and the very scale of grandeur on which the edifices are built, deepen the gloom 
of the basement, and make one recur to places nearer 11 home.” 

In walking cursorily through this city of barriers, of squares, and of mighty piles of 
stone and marble, solid ashlar towering upwards with an imposing grandeur and vastness, 
which is inexpressibly effective upon the imagination, there are several points of view from 
which one may obtain some idea of its extent and beauty. 

Take your stand for a few short moments by the Pont de la Concorde, and perhaps the 
Striking beauty of the panorama is nowhere so strikingly attractive; the more particularly 
if you add to this all the mystic attraction of a fine moonlight night, which heightens the 
illusion, and hides that which may be dark and deformed. 

Bight before you is the noble square itself, with its columns, pillars, and facades, 
standing like white blocks carved out of moonshine. Sparkling and flashing with a plea¬ 
sant murmur, lipping over the edges, are the fountains, and between them shoots up with 
a peculiar light and shafted air the Obelisk, which once honoured Cleopatra, and now 
reminds the reader of Kleber, and the flight of Napoleon. 

Carrying the eye up the open street, the Bue Boyale, which leads from the bridge to 
the church of the Madeline, the shafted pillars broadening with an almost indescribable 
majesty, seem fitly to bound the prospect. The palace of the Tuilleries, the umbrageous 
trees in the gardens, the quay with its splendid mansions, and the river, which forms a 
road of undulating silver, and glides softly beneath the stars, showing you no more of its 
mud and filth. 

Far away, along the quays, across the beautiful bridges, where a dense mass of build¬ 
ing to the right, to the left, back and front, obstruct the view, and puzzle one, by their 
labyrinthine confusion, to analyse them, and say, this is so and so, yonder is such and 
such. But above all, with an effect that is heightened by so many things, in broad contrast 
rise the huge towers of Notre Dame, silent, frowning, and vast; the more imposing, that 
there is an air of solitary grandeur surrounding them, a sense of stupendous repose, a stern 
and voiceless aspect of warning and of menace, which is comprehended with far more ease 
than I can describe it, when the spectator proves its effect by actual observation. 

By turning yourself round, and following the view which is thus presented, down the 
fine frontage of the Quai d’Orsay, the Chamber of Deputies, followed by the ponderous 
structure of the Invalides, together with its ample esplanade, and the sudden winding of 
the river a little before arriving at the Champs de Mars, adds powerfully to the attraction 

of the panorama. 

Then the eye rests with a sentiment of delicious gratification upon the beauties of the 


60 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


Champs Elysees, behind which again are the gardens attached to that palace of charming 
stories and piquant adventure, the Elysee Bourbon. Standing nearly in the centre of the 
Place de la Concorde, with the back to the gardens of the stately Tuilleries; while once 
more the Madeline is on the right, the Chamber of Deputies to the left, straight before you 
is the avenue of Neuilly, at the extremity of which the colossal arch erected by Napoleon 
towers up in the extreme distance. 

The whole, in effect, forms a picture such as few cities in the world can offer in the 
aggregate. Accident rather than design have placed the finest structures of Paris so near 
to each other, and so central as regards the whole, that the effect is doubly fascinating, by 
the very fact, that beauties multiply their qualities in the same proportion as the objects 
themselves are increased in number. 

From the summit of Notre Dame again, what a magnificent bird’s eye view is offered. 
Temple and tower, palaces, mansions, hospitals, the bridges spanning the river, the distant 
boulevards , the lofty columns, the millions of things and places that are impossible to name, 
or describe, all conspire to form one of the noblest spectacles in the world. 

One remarkable thing strikes the wanderer about Paris, and that is, how, in one way or 
other, so many local places constitute the historical landmarks of the various stormy scenes 
Paris has seen. When the axe of the headsman was filling the great square with blood, 
the place received the name of the Place de la Revolution. Since then it commemorates 
another treaty of peace, and the Place de la Concorde indicates the sentiment and the 
event, the Pont de Louis the Sixteenth receiving also the latter name. The Place de 
Grhve, the Place de la Bastile, and a hundred others, are in a moment suggestive of those 
frightful episodes which at that day appalled the world, and made the blood of the boldest 
turn cold. 

Ancient Paris has its remains yet in the midst of modern Paris. London, on the con¬ 
trary, has very few of its antique edifices yet remaining. The Tower, an ancient gate 
called St. John’s at Clerkenwell, and one or two things of minor importance constitute the 
whole. 

Not so, however, in Paris. Such names as these are quite sufficient to stamp a place 
with the character of antiquity, as the ferocity and feudalism of the middle ages are at 
once apparent to the reader. They are prisons, citadels, and fortresses, and the rack, the 
dungeon, and the guillotine, loom menacingly out of the shadow. 

There were the two Chatelets, the Tournelle, the Tour de Nesle, with its hideous tra¬ 
gedies of lust and blood. There was the Tour des Bois, the Sorbonne, with its traditions 
of Abelard, and its hair-splitting logic; there was the Pre-aux-Cleres, with its ill reputa¬ 
tion for duels and assassination; and at some of the barriers now you perceive the remains 
of the old fortalice gate, with its ditch, and soldiery, and clanking chains, drawbridge, and 
so on. 

Nothing in the world can give a more striking and graphic picture of ancient Paris, 
than is to be found in the Esmeralda of Victor Hugo, the great rookery of the day being 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


G1 


known as the Coeur des Miracles, that pandemonium, which flourished and battered under 
the august protection of Notre Dame, for the same reason that the sanctity of Westminster 
Abbey protected, in lazy enjoyment, the old rookeries around the proud pile, where the 
moral sewerage of humanity seemed to pour out its filthy, but also its living tide. 

In the winter Paris is so dark, so gloomy, so dirty, and so forbidding, that it would be 
utterly uninhabitable, if it were not for the everlasting succession of in-door amusement 
that is being continually invented for its volatile people, by dramatists, musicians, com¬ 
posers, actors, dancers, and a million other agents who make life so agreeable, by perpe¬ 
tually creating fresh food for an appetite always insatiate, with a fecundity, and a fertility, 
as surprising as it is original. 

In the summer it is quite as unbearable, for the sun scorches your brains, and blinds you 
with its rays, and the dust gets into your eyes, your mouth, your throat; and therefore the 
fresh boulevards, the squares, where the flashing fountains cool the air, the green woods, 
the country round Paris, invites you to go forth. 

But in the glaring day, within the city, there are numberless resources. There are the 
Tuilleries, the Louvre, the Luxembourg, with their sculptures, their gardens, their terraces, 
their moist and mossy fountains, and their unique styles of gardening, which, in spite of 
innovation, yet retain their courtly stiffness ; but, above all these, in the spacious halls, 
gilded, pillared, magnificent, and striking, there is the exposition of all that Paris can boast 
of in art; in those mighty paintings which line the walls, you trace the advancement of 
the people. 

There is the garden of the Arsenal to walk about in ; there are the Botanic Gardens— 
the garden of the Apothecaries, where the most lovely flowers grow; there is the park of 
Mousseux, the garden of the Luxemburg, the Jardin des Plantes, the Champs Elysdes, the 
Allde des Veuves, opening so brightly upon the Seine, opposite to another purely 
Parisian resort, the Champs de Mars; and, finally, there are the gardens of the Palace 
Boyale. 

If, as I have hinted, you are tired without, go within. Enter those majestic piles, and 
sit down and gaze, or saunter about, if you prefer it better, and still gaze around you. 
Devour, if you can, the glory and the grandeur of these paintings, which remind you of 
the golden ages of intellect that are sprinkled here and there in the ages of the world’s 
misrule, just like a few golden hairs peeping amid those that are growing grey. In the 
Luxembourg it is Kubens who rules everywhere. The whole of those great paintings are so 

many apotheosis of the life of Mary of Medici. 

In the Tuilleries we see ceilings by Loir and Flemael, not to speak of friezes, that 
are so many chronologies and sculptures, which is the military history of a past epoch. In 
fact, I am utterly bewildered when I want to tell you, my reader, with something like con¬ 
secutiveness, what I have seen and admired. 

As they have theatres in London, I do not so much care about them. They are very 
brilliant, it is true; but for real brilliancy, oh ! the theatres of Paris bear the bell. Of all 


G2 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


scenes, none are so striking to a stranger as one of the fashionable u houses” of Paris, 
more particularly if it’s a “ favourite” night. 

Dazzling chandeliers, which multiply the intensity of the burners, fling a vivid glare 
upon a fashionably-dressed audience, upon lovely women, who are one blaze of diamonds; 
while silken dresses rustle, and sweet voices, in one low murmur of sound, sometimes 
break out into a sweet winning laugh, that peals like magical music in the enraptured 
ear. Eyes brighten and flash beneath white brows, pencilled with dark silken lines; and 
vermeil lips open and disclose teeth of pearl, as well, by my faith, as teeth made by Talma 
the dentist. Then the music of the overture, brilliant, light, bounding, commences. A 
torrent of sweet sounds arise, and fills the theatre. It may be that they are giving vitality 
to the beauties of Beethoven, of Mendelsshon, of Mozart, or of Rossini; or perhaps it is 
one of the graceful things with which Gretry or Lully were wont to amuse the grand 
monarque. Whatever it is, or by whomsoever written, there is a delirious gladness in the 
abandon with which you give yourself up to its fascinations. 

To vary this, there is the Circus, a huge, heavy tent of velvets, chandeliers, and com¬ 
fortable boxes, and its two thousand people beneath one circular roof. This circus is the 
great encampment of the Champs Elysees, which must needs be called the u Olympic,” be¬ 
cause, as you, my young classic readers know, that horses formed a part of the competitors 
in the ancient games, it is, at the least, a name as appropriate as any other. 

I mentioned, as a promenade, a place where your true Parisian rambler has always a 
penchant for. The Allee de Veuves — 11 the Widows’ Walk”—leads from the Champs Elysees 
to the Seine, and from thence you can go on to the Pont du Champs de Mars. If you hap¬ 
pen to be alone—for when you have become accustomed to Paris there is a great charm in 
being alone—I say, if you have been to this gigantic hippodrome by yourself, and have at 
last satiated yourself with music and horsemanship, and the fragrance of oranges and saw¬ 
dust, those inseparable concomitants of a genuine circus, and feel that the heat is more 
oppressive than agreeable, you go forth and feel the boundless blessing of a cool breeze in 
the soft and silent evening playing on your forehead. 

The moon is up, the lovely moon of the opening summer, and unconsciously you go 
along towards the end of the street, which exhibits at once the deformities and the beauties 
of Paris,—the deformities undeniable when the Seine is low and the waters muddy,—the 
beauties, par excellence , when the waters are high, when it flows with a fresh, broad current, 
and forms a noble relief, or basement, if you like, to the structures erected on either side. 

There, on the very site of a house that once called Madame Tallien, the beautiful and the 
good, the queen of a republic, that rivalled the queen of a monarchy, where Napoleon drew 
draughts of love from the superb eyes of Josephine ere they were wedded, and before he 
had made those eyes fill with tears of sad and mournful regrets, when the Emperor repudi¬ 
ated the good and the gentle wife to take an Austrian to his heart—there, if you please, 
you may dance at a ball held every night on the spot. 

If you refuse to go, having, as I have said, listened sufficiently, and being sufficiently 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


63 


heated, you walk on in tlie pale starlight, in the white moonshine, and the calm river, 
divested of all but its beauty, rolls placidly along. 

In the solemn air the lofty steeples sleep; calmly do the broad-fronted palaces on the 
Quais stand slumbering as the waters sing beside their piled foundations. 

Then appears to you—as you go up the Quai de la Conference—then appears to you a 
thousand feeble lights along the sides of the Seine, but on such a night they are value¬ 
less. You behold the dome of the Invalids, the Chamber of Deputies ; presently you are 
under the shadows of the Tuilleries ; again Notre Dame looms through the radiant mist, its 
turrets no longer dark and gloomy, but white, majestic, and vast. 

The whole will bear to be repeated; you may describe it, and look upon it over and 
over again ; but because every night is not moonlight and starlight at Paris, so every night 
is not a carnival of Nature, in which she wears everything that is brightest, gayest, most 
gladsome ; and therefore I refer only to those nights when all I have described is to be 
seen as I have told it. 

There is something in the atmosphere of a summer’s night, when the distant melodies float 
on the air, and every one you meet is even happier than the last passer by; when pretty 
women trip by you murmuring the music of the last opera, darting from beneath their 
brows glances that are perfectly irresistible, there is a fascination which is much more 
easily admitted than described, and the man who is proof against those magical influences 
has a heart much less penetrable than the American. How many little romances, delicious 
in their episodes, calm and tranquil in their termination, have I "woven within my own 
mind as I have traversed those crowded solitudes alone in the evening—solitudes, though 
thousands surrounded me, all smiling, all happy, to none of whom I spoke one word, but 
only went on with my dreaming. I often thought that I had exchanged temperaments 
with Ralph Potter, because there was so much poetry in these day, or rather evening, dreams, 
and because they were all pure, and my conscience never once reproached me. 

Having thus commenced to ramble about the city alone, while my two friends went 
round on their way—that is, after the first two or three days’ rush hither and thither in 
company was over—I will continue for a little while longer in detailing to the reader, as 
they struck me, the most remarkable things in Paris, and I warn him that they will not 
be over half a dozen. 

Because, in the first place, I leave hotels, and shops, and advices , and a hundred other 
things, to the route-book, to the guide-book, to the whatever you please. I have all Europe 
to put down in my book, but I cannot therefore fritter away space and time upon secondary 
things. 


And to begin with the Palais Royale, because to this place there is a history within a 
history. One end of it fronts the Rue St. Honore, and its facade was built by Moreau in 
1763. Its erection was begun by Cardinal Richelieu in 1629, and it has been augmented, 
altered, metamorphosed, cleansed, polluted, and cleansed out again since. It has seen the 
representation of every phase of politics since the great statesman’s time. The ancient 


64 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


hotels of De Brion de Mercoeur, and Rambouillet, supplied a site for the building. Fol¬ 
lowing the example of Wolsey, the Cardinal bequeathed it to Louis XIV., who resided 
here during the wars of the Fronde, and thus gave it a name. 

Next it became the property of a man notorious for infamy, the Duke of Orleans, and 
continued in his branch of the family. In 1763 it was enlarged and beautified. In 1786 
the galleries surrounding the garden were erected, and it reached the climax of its renown, 
pure and impure, revolutionary and democratic, during the time it was possessed by the late 
Duke of Orleans, father to Louis Phillippe. 

Then indeed did a transformation take place. 

The late Duke of Orleans, of whom so many admirable things were said, when, as Phillip 
Egalite, “republics,” “freedom,” and “happiness,” were grand words with vast meanings, 
echoed from shore to shore, and his name sounded foremost among those who laid their 
hands stoutly upon thrones in order to drag them into the dust:— 

Phillip Egalite, who owned this fine property, with its traditions so petite, so triste, so 
agreeable, and yet mingling so much of tragedy with comedy, that you shudder more than 
you laugh, was like all the Dukes of Orleans of the past generation. He was profligate, 
extravagant, and vicious, and had exhausted his princely revenues. Before he became so 
prominent in the revolution, he was compelled to mortgage this property largely, and when 
the revolution did come he found himself enabled to make use of it as a point of centraliza¬ 
tion. Its notoriety was something to alarm one. 

It is, we must repeat, centrally situated, distractmgly, delightfully placed within a short 
distance of the Opera, of the Theatre Italian, of the Theatre Francjais, and of the Vaudeville. 
In fact, to complete the whole, there is, for religious purposes, the Church of St. Rocli at 
hand; for business, there is the Hall an ble ; and for matters more equivocal, there is the 
Rue Richelieu. It would be hard to say what there is not, in the extremes of vice and 
virtue, within a short distance of the Palais Royale. But to continue. 

The Duke of Orleans, being seized with sudden poverty, and a thirst for speculation, 
thought that neither in nor out of Paris could so much money be made out of one localized 
spot, and he was right. 

He made of this splendid place, where vice sells at a price higher than at Rome, at 
Naples, at Vienna, or at London—I except New York, as we there sell the best article ; 
failing that, the buy ;v, my snakes ! we may be ’cute now and then, surely:— 

I say he made of this place a splendid bazaar—shops, dining-rooms, gambling-rooms, 
rooms for merchants of every description. The ball-rooms, the cafes, and the saloons, have 
originated all that we now meet with in other cities; and here flocked the wealth of all the 
civilized capitals of Europe. 

Debauchery, which was excluded at first with rigid morality, that was perfectly edifying, 
was afterwards taken in, and made lovely, attractive, fascinating, enchanting to insanity. 
It was then called the Palais Egalite. 

When that titled democrat went “ to home,” the revolutionary tribunal held its sittings 









MELT 


PERU LA CHAISE 


monu: 



THE FLOWER. A SHRUB MARKET,PARI 




















































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


65 


there ; and the great meetings—those decisive ones—they were held there also ; and on one 
wild, stormy, grand evening, in 1789, the tri-coloured cockade was adopted with as much 
avidity as in London they afterwards seized upon new polkas. 

I think it is Louis Blanc, who, in his history of 1 Ten Years,’ gives some terrible revela¬ 
tions of what the Palais Loyale could do after the entrance of the allied army into Paris, 
when the star of Napoleon was set. As I have not the work to quote from, nor indeed any 
available, I speak from what I have seen and heard. 

In the day-time all classes resort to this enchanting spot. It offers everything to 
tempt the eye; it offers everything in the shape of essences, incense—flattery even to 
tempt the ear; it parades out of its numerous windows and doors everything that can 
tempt the taste. Everything that is rare, costly, beautiful, or useful, is to be met with 
there. 

But at night—in the soft summer night—its attractions are enhanced tenfold. It 
appears like a city of miniature palaces; music pours out like streams upon the odorous air. 
It is a brilliant phantasmagoria. Illuminated by the glare of a thousand lamps, aided by 
mirrors, by men, by laughter, bustle, and gaiety, everything is magnified, multiplied. 
Its •enchantments are infinite. If you have money, go through the Palais Boyale at night: 
you may do that if you have none. I am not assuming the tone of a man who spends a 
few francs in purchasing a pleasure ; be it of music, of painting, or of the ornamental arts. 
To look where there is everything that the wildest imagination can picture or invent, is 
merely to use the eyes ; no one charges for sight-seeing where there are no walls to make 
seeing a matter of profit. 

But to go within, as far as the “ penetralia,” to behold all that is hidden from the 
view of all, it is requisite that you have money—very little, praise be to the general 
economy and liberality of Parisian places of resort, it does not require much. 

At night, when the dancing-rooms are full, when the cafes are croAvded, when one eter¬ 
nal hum of men and Avomen arises from this brilliant Babel, I promise you that the Palais 
Boyale is a sight. Warm, yet breezy summer eA'enings enhance the pleasures of the scene; 
but there are places within the Palais Boyale against which Ave warn you from entering. 
Presently, as Ave enter a little into its modern history, you will find that there is more 
than the temptation of luxury to be defiant against. The Avhole spas of Germany could 
never compete with the gambling carried on within this spot. Princes, marshals, generals, 
down to the hosier and the clerk, were always Avelcome; and the tables licensed by the 
government for exchequer purposes Avcre sometimes coA r ered with wealth that would have 
paid the ransom of a king tAvice over, even in the times when they were dearest! 

Walk under those arcades, and glance across the gardens; observe the groups as they 
pass by you, before you, or across you, and you begin instantly to form a hundred different 
destinies for each one. 

You see a young pair Avith heads bent closely together. You like the earnest, handsome 
face of the man ; you love the downcast, tender eyes of the woman, whose little laughing 

E 


66 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


mouth has suddenly assumed so serious, so grave an expression. Their voices are tender 
and low ; hut, in truth, it is he who speaks, who urges, who implores ; and it is she who 
listens with a trembling of delight to what he says, for at the moment he is telling her of 
his love, he is pressing her to name the day—he is pointing out to her the happiness that 
waits them in the future, when the calm days come on, and wrap them and their children 
in peace, till they part for the silent shores of Heaven! 

Yes ! within a few yards of debauchery, gambling, wild license, and even of assassina¬ 
tion, there is some such sacred converse as this going on. Often and often have I to 
myself, with an instinct that I can assert to be unerring, arranged these little episodes, each 
one of which is an absolute oasis in the dreary waste of life, and should never fall unre¬ 
garded—its very indication should be welcome. 

Next, probably, comes the man of pleasure, the lounger at the opera, the applauder of 
some favourite actress at the comedie. lie does not walk side by side of another beating 
heart. He is llaze. He is the man whose perfection, whose knowledge, whose experi¬ 
ence is painfully complete, and he walks on when alone with a wearied, jaded air, that he 
at first assumed because it was distingue, and now uses it out of habit. 

He deserves his fate. Barren of heart, and cold of soul, he has no mighty emotions to 
rouse up. But hold ! 

How I am wandering and philandering in the Palais Boyale, and doing that too when I 
have promised my reader something succinct, and as clear as I can make it. It has as bril¬ 
liant and as equivocal a reputation as any place in Europe; and yet, strange to say, no 
woman hesitates to walk there at day or at night. This is owing to a trait in Frenchmen, 
that let their intemperance be great, their debauch rarely degenerates into an orgia, the 
general rule is, they never insult a woman. It is the extreme of the exception to do so; 
and as I never saw a Parisian drunkard yet, I can only repeat what I have said. 

The Palais Boyale therefore, since the regency, became the grand centre, round which 
every glittering vice revolved. There were tables loaded with gold,—there were women, 
whose charms proved to be irresistible,—and there were, above all, music, dancing, masked 
balls, and carnivals—in a word, intrigue was never so fascinating. It is not, in one sense, 
much better at this day, I opine. 

To this earthly paradise then, alloyed as it was with sensuality, but which after all 
constituted the secret of its brilliant success, came the princes, the potentates, the peers of 
the earth ; and in the laps of the scarlet-mantled women, who sold smiles, and laughter, 
and sweet words, they poured countless treasures. These were again absorbed by hideous 
and withered anatomies, who, male and female, lay far in dens out of the glitter and the 
gold, and who drew the strings which made the puppets act, and grew bloated amid the 
aural obesity which afflicted them, and made their natures inhuman and devilish. 

The most extraordinary thing of the whole is, that this place, where men trod on cloth 
of gold, belonged, in the abstract, to the banditti of Paris, who, with bare and hirsute bosoms, 
played at cards in filthy cellars, whose impure odours were destroyed by the perfumes ot 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


67 


the lair chambers—belonged to these ruffians, who made emperors, and marshals, and the 
noble ol all lands, pay them tribute for loaning out their mistresses. 

'Ihis is then, in some measure, the solution of the mystery which shrouds the history of 
the Palais Royale. One may easily marvel how it was that goodness and innocence could 
walk amid those pleasant gardens, and still remain pure and uncontaminated. This, how¬ 
ever, is no mystery. Vice is very powerful, and comprehends in its strategy a huge circle 
of seducing artillery. Virtue dares to walk through crowds of smiling vice and truculent vil- 
lany, without a feather of its downy plumes being smirched. 

One would have said that the rites of Astarte, of the antique Syrian groves, had been 
revived—that some one or other had discovered the books of a nameless worship, and that 
fires had been lighted on the altars of Cytherea once more, in the Palais Poyale. 

At this day all is much more prosy, but also more virtuous;—at this day it is not so 
brilliant, but there is much less vice stalking abroad. An order of banishment was made 
out, and the lorette removed to other quarters—the gaming-table was condemned. What 
of that!—At Baden-Baden, at the watering places on the Rhine, where they are protected 
by mediated princes for a fee, the croupier still wears an order at his button-hole—the red 
and the black consign men to perdition as fast as ever, and the vice concentrated in one spot 
has been sown abroad like the dragon’s teeth, and is now in extenso ;—it is brought home 
to the doors of those who say, “ Enter ! ” 

The Palais Royale, with its delirious attractions, lived and fattened on the vices which 
had found within its walls an 11 Alma mater,” if such words are not desecrated in their 
present use. 

I hope I shall not be accused of amplifying too much upon this one particular locality, 
but I have done so for several reasons;—firstly, because the so-called glories of the Palais 
Royale are fast decaying ; a collection of smart shops, an attempt at a fete, and the prestige 
of its old days being all left to it; and secondly, because the history of Parisian morality, 
or immorality, whichever you will, is indissolubly connected with it. These latter are of 
more consequence than the monuments of a victory, or a defeat. The progress of any por¬ 
tion of the human race into or out of the paths of error are considerations of vast moment. 

It prospered in the midst of its shame, did the Palais Royale. It became Babylon¬ 
ian in its glittering gaiety. It had but one condition of existence, and that was the prosti¬ 
tution of everything—the virtue of women above all. It was like that tree, which is said 
to bear bright and blushing apples on the shores of the Dead Sea; but the wanderer, 
parched and hungered, who siezes the fruit with avidity, finds on biting it that his mouth is 
filled with ashes. 

Everything that was inimical to France was good for the prosperity of this spot. When 
in Paris an ignoble peace was made—when it opened its fifty-odd gates, and the foreigner 
at the head of his glittering staff entered—when the Prussian, and the Austrian, and the 
Englishman, and the Turk, and the Cossack, approached, like a lovely woman with a wan¬ 
ton smile, the Palais Royale beckoned with its hand, and said, u Come!” 


68 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


Then the revel began. Wine, red and white, began to flow, as if the fountains had been 
charged from the bubbling vats, and the sound of mirth and dulcimer, and of dancing feet 
mingled together, while the odorous air bore the dulcet tones, which died like delicious 
breezes in the ear. The festivities soon changed into wild orgies, frantic, bacchanal, 
infernal! 

The good Parisians, who dreaded its reputation even while they cherished it, said that it 
was good for them to have a spot so notorious within their city,—they said so for several 
reasons,—because it was a place against which they could inveigh with all the eloquence of 
outraged and indignant virtue; because they could bid their sons and their daughters 
beware of (but while stealing out themselves, they sometimes saw the one drinking cliam- 
bertin , and playing hazard, and met the other leaning on the arm of a whiskered gallant); 
but above all, because it brought so much gold from the east and west, from north and 
south ; and the prosperity of a city, they will tell you on the Bourse, depends on the money 
circulation a nation possesses. In effect, all was charming, and coleur-de-rose , all except 
the consequences. 

The u pigeon,” it was found, became a u rook,” the demoiselle, a lorette; and when 
mothers saw that if there was a gulf, it was of no use to warn their children against it, one 
day an edict said to the Palais Royale — u Be not!—exist no longer !”—and it ceased to be. 

It became a mere shell without a kernel—a body without a soul—a bladder grown col¬ 
lapsed—its vital air was departed. It then remained for Paris to behold what it gained, 
when it had committed this ostracism on what was once so fondly cherished. 

Vice, en masse , centralized in one spot, is an object terrible enough in its strength—in its 
insinuating arms—in its multiplied polypi grasp. When the idol is broken up and scat¬ 
tered, the aspect frightens no longer; the pigmy pieces are supposed to have lost their 
former potentiality. Is it then forgotten that the grain of corn lodged for a thousand years 
with an embalmed mummy, was sown, and bore fruit ?—so also, when the fractions of this 
decaying splendour was flung out of the Palais, they spread over Paris—they spread over 
France—they lined the villages and watering-places of the Rhine—and the gambler of the 
Talais Royale might have been found in a Swiss chalet, under the Rhone Alps, carrying his 
gods and his devotion into the peaceful valleys of the Voralberg and the Tyrol. Expa¬ 
triated women carried their vices also with them. 

Was this not, after all, the opening of Pandora’s box, in which there was not even 
hope left? Wander around the dark purlieus of the Palais at this day, and behold the 
change. 

A cloud for a century had hung over this garden of enchantments. To those who 
moved beneath this cloud, it was only by day a heaven filled with sunshine and music, and 
by night with a moon, stars, music, and incense. They, beneath, beheld nothing but the 
reflection which gold, flashing by the light of a thousand parti-coloured lamps, created. 

At a distance, however, those who looked on it and knew it, beheld a sombre, wrathful 
shadow, whose dubious splendour was tinted with the lurid fires of a bottomless abyss. 


















































































































































































































DOME DES INVALIDES. . EGLISE DE S T EUSTACHE 


























































































































































































fere la chaise. 

































































THE EXCHANGE 
PARIS 



THEATRE DE E' OPERA COMIQTJE 






PARI S 









































































































































/ 




// //> 7 ' 








































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


69 


Now grim, haggard spectres of this temple of Chances and Aphrodite, each like a shat- 
teied marble-god endowed with motion, crawl about. The gambling banker went with 
his table and his gold, but he left his victims behind. The first few travelling carriages, 
bearing young collegians, fashionable tourists, and parvenus, descended at the spas, beheld 
Fortune wooing them, and stayed to play. 

therefore, in annihilating the Talais Royale, they did not annihilate its vices, for a very 
sufficient reason—they were not able to do so—and messieurs the police only laugh at the 
idea. 

At the present time the Palais Royale is as innocuous as it is possible for the place to be, 
and its inhabitants are honest tradesmen. What can I say more? 

Concluding my notice on the Palais Royale, I will give a story, the main incidents of 
which are perfectly true—that is to say, I have received them for truth, and I offer them as 
such. I call it 


gin lEptso&e of t&e palais dftoyalc. 

The play was high one night at Frascati’s, and the brilliant lights, reflected from gilded 
mirrors, fell on curtains, carved pillars, and costly frames—on splendid furniture and 
rich buffets, where the rosiest wines were flashing—on women young and fair, wearing 
costly robes and jewels—on men elegantly dressed, wearing the badges of St. Louis, and 
the legion of honour, and some one or two with stars on the breast. Music was sounding 
dimly without, because it was a gala, and the gay crowds were dancing and promenading 
in the moonshine, while within all was devoted to the worship of the infernal demon of 
gambling. 

These lights, we say, fell on fine men and young women, but their faces were thin, 
nervous, haggard, moved by the most appalling passions—in fact, they were awful to 
look upon. 

The table was crowded with spectators and with players, for, in fact, by an extraordi¬ 
nary chance, the game had turned in favour of a certain man, about two and thirty years 
of age, whose distinguished air, dress, and handsome figure, had before attracted notice; 
but, now that all seemed to favour him, lie was the observed of all observers. What 
was most remarkable, too, was the perfect coolness with which he bore this influx of for¬ 
tune. 

He had become known to the frequenters of the gaming-table as a bold, but hitherto 
unsuccessful, gamester—that is to say, his losses had been balanced by his winnings; but 
his winnings had never been aught of consequence till this evening. 

Now the demoniac energy of gaming had seized him. His eyes blazed up with the fire 
of an all-grasping avarice. He heard naught but the sound of the ball and the dice, and 
those frightful words which indicate the game, and which cause curses and gnashings of 
teeth. His lips were pale, and so were his cheeks, and the bold, decisive, handsome out¬ 
line of his features, shaded as they were by dark hair, gave him an appearance of such 


70 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


blighted, withered beauty, as for the moment could waken no other sentiment in the mind 
of the spectator than the profoundest pity. 

There were bold, beautiful women pressing up towards the haggard winner, who, with 
all his pallor, preserved a sang-froid almost frightful. Some brought him wine in tall 
glasses, which gave a fascination to the foaming champagne, and others brought him smiles; 
but he heeded neither, he played on. He drank, it is true, but he did not lift up his eyes 
from the table. 

Two young, elegantly-dressed men were whispering together, and standing half shrouded 
by a pillar. They were looking on with the eyes of kites, or vultures, as though, had his 
heart been gold, they would have torn it out, dripping with blood though it were. 

“ By all the devils!” muttered one, with a fair face, pale silky moustache, and pink eyes 
—“By all the devils! what a coup! He has won again, this Count Fabian!” The 
speaker meant the man who was playing. 

“ You are right,” responded the other, a man of faultless form, which possessed the 
streno-th of a Milo. “ On my faith, Monsieur Lazioli, I should uncommonly like to share 
it with him! ” 

“ Would you?” and the other as he laughed, lightly muttered, “ Ho you think, Mon¬ 
sieur le Marquis that this young galliard would be likely to meet with any who might 
discommode him as he returned homeward ? ” 

“ To-night?” asked he who was called the Marquis. 

“ Faith, yes, to-night.” 

“ Why, I do not know. May I ask- By Mercury! ” he suddenly exclaimed, “ the 

man must be in league with the common enemy of man ! Have you noticed the amount?” 

“ Yes,” replied Lazioli; “ he has won about seventy thousand francs! ” 

The other, called the Marquis de Luzan, fell back, and seemed struck by the magnitude 
of the sum. In the meantime the player still went on, and still continued to win. 

“ You have counted correctly,” said the Marquis ; “ upon my faith, it would be a great 
pity if he should be unable to take his treasure safely home.” 

“ And see,” added Monsieur Lazioli, “how he drinks! He is delirious, and his cheeks 
are no longer pale. It would be an act of kindness, Monsieur le Marquis, to see him safely 
home, and he must cross the notorious Rue des bon Enfants-” 

“ True,” responded the Marquis; “ and luckily I am possessed of a weapon of defence,” 
and he indicated by a glance the pocket of his dress coat, in which lie carried a life-pre¬ 
server. 

“ What a sequence of good fortune!” cried Lazioli, “ for I too happen to carry a very 
excellently tempered dagger, taken up by I know not what accident.” 

We will not pursue this farther, than by saying that the designs of these confederates, 
spoken in a purring murderous whisper as they were, partially reached the ears of an 
individual who was still behind them, and who passed them up to the table, and planted 
himself with a gentle violence by the gambler’s side. 




THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


71 


“ Fabian!” 

The man stamped impatiently. He did not look up, and the new comer proceeded by 
less ceremonious means to make his friend attend to him. The two complotters, who kept 
a careful eye upon Fabian, beheld this, and execrated a chance which should, on this par¬ 
ticular night, have produced a guardian who was not by any means wanted. 

The new comer—a man handsomely dressed in black, had a striking presence, was forty 
years of age, strong of limb, swarthy of face, and, by the form of his mouth, firm and cool 
of purpose—finding that his younger friend was so fascinated with the play that he refused 
to hear him, took him by the arm. 

The other, lifting up his eyelid, cast a supercilious glance upon him, shrugged his 
shoulders, and roughly taking off his arm, said tersely, u Allez au diable, Monsieur le 
Compte !—Le noir!—le noir!”’ he cried, as he doubled the stakes, and black won again. 

The heap of gold before him was changed into notes. He possessed a fortune; and 
such fiery glances were darted at him, that the last comer w r ould not have been surprised 
had he seen the elegant bandits precipitate themselves upon Fabian, knife in hand, and 
divide the spoil, while his blood dabbled the ground. 

A beautiful girl was approaching Fabian with a goblet of champaign in her hand. 
The handsome though pallid young man took it, and was conveying it to his lips, when 
the Count with his cane adroitly struck the glass, and the wine, with the shattered fragments, 
fell to the ground. 

This destroyed the spell. 

He -we have named Fabian drew back with a muttered execration, and his darkening 
face indicated to the bystanders that the tempestuous wrath flashing in his eye was to be 
dreaded. Ilis eye fell, however, upon the tranquil and composed face of the Count. The 
lofty hauteur , the scorn for the base occupation of the hour, the imperious self-possession of 
the man, disarmed the other of all his aroused fury, and the bitter words he meditated were 
stifled in their utterance. 

u Come, Fabian, come !” said the Count. 

u Monsieur! ” Tins word, expressing astonishment and anger, and addressed to the 
Count, was spoken by Fabian, by the keepers of the gaming-table, by the beautiful girl 
who had proffered the glass—for a purpose doubtless—and by our tw r o friends already intro¬ 
duced, who said to each other, sotto voce — 

11 If w r e can only separate them-” 

u If we can quarrel-” 

u Ah, qa! behold! a chance ! ” 

11 Let us embrace it then !” 

By these, we say, the stranger wdio had committed so rude an impertinence, was sternly 
addressed as “ Monsieur !” There w T as in this something very threatening. 

He turned, looked them frankly, fully in the face, and smiled. On the beautiful girl 
his glance fell last, and softened. 




72 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


11 Mademoiselle,” said he, u you will pardon me the necessity I was under of arousing 
my friend’s attention. He was so wrapped up in the game, that I was compelled to be 
guilty of a breach of etiquette, which, because it has offended a charming young woman 
like you, I am sorry for.” 

He was apologising to her as if she had been a lady or duchess, and she was neither. 
Had she been his sister, he could not have been more profoundly respectful to her. She 
was an unfortunate. 

But with the men it was different. They looked savagely upon him, and he returned 
the glance with such a daring, desperate, and truculent air, that many of them drew back. 

“ Well, Messieurs!” he calmly said, addressing the company generally. Then, turning 
to the banker of the table and his assistants, he added, u I wish my friend to leave this just 
now. He has played enough—won enough—and I do not choose that he shall lose to¬ 
night.” 

“ But-” 

u But, Messieurs,” he interrupted them with a smile, u if I say that he shall not play, I 
pledge you my honour that I will keep my word. Fabian, come with me.” 

a I do not feel disposed at present, M. le Compte,” replied Fabian languidly, and the 
young woman went smiling nearer to him; but the man, who had now saturated himself 
in his horrible cupidity, did not even deign to glance at her. 

11 Take my advice,” said the Count, “ for one or two gentlemen present have been 
expressing themselves willing to take charge of your winnings, and,” added he with an 
emphasis which all heard, and none could mistake, “ to be your body-guard / ” 

The two men who had been behind the pillar canvassing the chances in their favour, 
startled at discovering that they had been overheard, thought their best plan was to be 
silent. They slunk among the crowd, the black blood bubbling at their hearts, but their 
oath of vengeance was uttered. 

It was just possible for the gay, bold stranger to have comprehended this; for, with his 
bitter smile on his lips, he fastened his eyes upon them as they retreated, with a pertinacity 
that was equivalent to pointing a finger at them as the persons he meant. Hot observing 
this, the two took no notice. 

There was a determination, an obduracy about the Count, which struck the desperate 
and revengeful men; for the misery of the matter was, that Fabian was carrying away a 
sum of money which left the bank with scarcely a stake in it. 

11 Monsieur le Compte, we have a right to our revenge,” said the croupier. 

“ Take it,” replied the Count, in a tone of insolent scorn, as he flung his card on the 
table, and touched the hilt of his sword. “ My friend has rather too much gold about him 
not to have his safety endangered, and I, Messieurs, have a particular objection to his 
remaining any longer to-night.” 

“Upon my honour!” exclaimed Fabian, laughing in spite of himself, and reeling 
slightly between the mingled excitement of play and wine—“ Upon my honour, M. le 



THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


73 


Compte, unless you have a mind to be my mentor entirely, it would be worth your while 
to leave me alone.” 

u Not at all,” said the Count, smiling; “ you are too rich.” 

te And you will not lose me ?” asked the other quietly. 

“Upon my word, no!” replied the Count. 

They both quitted the unholy chamber together, and proceeded through the dark suburbs 
towards the Chassde d’Antin. 

Monsieur Lazioli, and the Marquis de Luzan, who had been waiting without to watch 
their exit, beheld them come forth, and, arm in arm, proceeded to follow them. 

11 One of them must live where they go to,” said Monsieur Lazioli sententiously, as if no 
other possible conclusion could be drawn. 

“ I agree with you,” said the Marquis; “ shall we follow them ?” 

11 It will be as well,” was the response; “ because, if they should be attacked, we 
can-” 

“ Bah ! ” interrupted the other; “ we will find out where they both live, for if this 
Monsieur Fabian is a failure, we shall have something due to this confounded Count, and 
I, for one, will not rest until I have repaid him.” 

“ See there now,” said Monsieur Lazioli, “ how strangely you meet my views. Tron 
de l’air!” he muttered; “ but I suspect my friend the Count will have no objection to sit 
down to hazard with the winner.” 

“ And—” said the Marquis. 

“ Why,” continued Lazioli, “ as luck is sure to change, it is he that will be the winner; 
so that, after all, matters will not be as bad as they seem.” 

“ You are right; let us go on.” 

They therefore followed the two friends till they arrived in front of a splendid house in 
the Chaste d’Antin, when the Count would have bade his companion good night. 

“ You are at your hotel now, my friend,” said he, “ and you have your money safe. 
Enter—and Adieu! ” 

“Not yet,” said Fabian; “you must come up and have a cigar with me. We will 
have coffee, or champagne, whichever you please.” 

The Count would have resisted this invitation, had not Fabian declared that he would 
return to the gaming-table if his friend quitted him. 

“ I feel need of a little excitement,” said he. “ Pardon me if I am pertinacious, but I 
wish you to go in with me, and complete what you have begun.” 

They accordingly entered, the Count not caring about resisting longer; and the two 
anxious friends, who had followed them, took up their stand outside, in order to wait 
patiently until one or other should again appear. 

We are now in a large chamber, well furnished, elegantly adorned, and brilliantly 
lighted. The two friends sat down by a table, on which Fabian’s servant had placed coffee, 
wine, ice, cigars, and fruits. The Count took coffee, and Fabian took wine. It was evi- 

T 



74 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


dent from the flush upon his cheek, and the fire in his eye, that the young man’s excitement 
was very great,—he had momentarily lost his sang-froid. 

Starting from his seat, he began to make his pockets disgorge their almost enormous 
wealth. Piles of notes, gold, and silver, were strewn upon the table. 

11 It is enough to make a man insane,” he said, with an hysteric laugh. u Here am I, 
who, this morning, was on the verge of ruin, almost a millionaire by a freak of fortune. 
Come!” he added gaily, u it is yet early, light your cigar, and let us play for a small stake; 
perhaps that will quiet me, for at present I feel an electric fire coursing through my heart.” 

The Count seeing that Fabian was really much more agitated than when in the earlier 
part of the evening, he was compelled to act as if he had nerves of steel, and was impassive 
to losing as to winning, acceded to his wish, and they began to play. 

The Count also, we must add, was much distressed at beholding the development of 
this frightful passion in a man whom he respected in no ordinary degree—a man in the 
prime of life, handsome, witty, well born, a writer, but fortuneless; and he thought he might, 
by agreeing to all he wished, thus tranquillize him, for, with the next morning, a revulsion 
of this frightful feeling might be expected. 

They played, therefore, for small stakes, and played without much heed or care, till sud¬ 
denly the Count was startled by observing that his heap of money was increasing—that he 
never lost, and always won—and a fear, as well as a new feeling, awoke within him. 

Fabian all the while appeared to be growing more and more composed ; and as, after all, 
the loss of a few hundred pieces were just as efficacious to him as blood-letting, and as he 
seemed to enjoy his cigar and his wine, so also did the Count determine not to take further 
note of what seemed to him—a thing he could not avoid, and the play went on. 

The two scelerats outside were still on the watch. They beheld the light at the win¬ 
dows steadily burning through the curtains, and as those within did not manifest the slightest 
disposition to move, they consequently came to the conclusion that they were playing. 

u Listen, my dear Marquis,” said Lazioli. “ It is plain, that after playing all this time 
—for of that I feel assured—if M. Fabian was a winner, the other, having no other parti¬ 
cular reason to stay, must be amusing himself at his expense.” 

11 That is what you infer?” asked the Marquis. 

“ Decidedly !” answered the other. u What the devil! must there not be a reason for 
everything ?” 

“ So M. de Cartes said,” replied the Marquis coldly, u though that may be unnecessary. 
W ell then,” he added, “ you think that our man, who will be doubly valuable to us, will 
come forth well lined some hour towards the morning.” 

u That is my opinion without hesitation,” said M. Lazioli. u It is getting cold,—but 
what of that ? Virtue is not always warm ; and, in the meantime, I advise a hiding in 
this passage, for I hear the patrol coming round.” They accordingly vanished for a time, 
until the police passed by. 

In the meantime, one would have said, that after the saloons at Frascati’s had disgorged 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


tlieir unhappy crew, the demon of gaming stalks grimly forth, in order that he might, if 
possible, gripe another victim by the throat. He passes on towards Fabian’s home,—he 
beholds the light in the window,—his ears hear the gamesters mutter the charmed words, 
—and a horrible smile breaks upon his still more horrible lips,—he enters the room, and 
breathes forth his dire spells. The demon of gaming ruled both the players. 

The Count, who would have defended his friend’s property with his life, now coveted 
the whole with ardour. As by the fatal turn of fortune’s wheel, he seemed destined to 
enjoy her horrible favours, he also grew excited, and, putting aside the coffee, applied 
himself to the champagne ; and thus, by that moral agency which is an incomprehensible 
condition of our existence, he found himself a slave to the detestable vice from which he 
had been so anxious to snatch his friend. 

The stakes were now increased, but the Count still continued to win, and a sensible 
diminution was observable in the splendid pile that was yet on Fabian’s side. 

The Count, who had exhibited an apathy allied to contempt for either the smiles or the 
frowns of fortune when in the gaming-chamber, appeared to have undergone a total change. 
He clutched at the gold with a ravenous avidity ; and the horrible paleness of Fabian’s face 
indicated what he felt. 

Both stopped for a moment when the throw of the dice transferred to the former an 
immense sum. Fabian emptied another glass of champagne, but finding that to be insuffi¬ 
cient, he seized a bottle, struck the neck off, poured its contents into a huge goblet, and, 
regardless of the danger which might arise from fragments of broken glass, drained it dry. 
His eyeballs seemed starting from their sockets. His skin was dry and feverish. 

11 Come,” said he, in a changed tone, and with a forced laugh, “ this is getting, after all, 
very serious. You are lucky, Count.” 

u Yes, yes!” hurriedly exclaimed the other; 11 jest often changes into earnest. You 
have given me a taste for this species of torment, and I am insatiate. Let us double the 
stakes.” 

u Let us double the stakes,” echoed Fabian, u and play as if each had staked his soul 
upon the cast.” 

u Agreed,” said the Count. 

Once more the fatal boxes rattled on the table, and an enormous pile of money which 
lay between them gave a sort of horrible fascination to the chances, which they both 
watched with the eyes of wolves. Once more the magic words were sounded, which told 
Fabian he had again lost. The dull, dead rattle of the cubes, were like the moanings of a 
spirit coming through coffin planks. 

u Take it! ” exclaimed Fabian fiercely, sweeping the money towards his friend, 11 take 
it! Now, double what you have won.” 

u Eh! with all my heartand his voice was tremulous with an unholy joy. Every 
principle of nobility, of innate honour, of self-respect, were swept away. The two game¬ 
sters, in all the stark ugliness of their moral depravity, alone were there. The two men of 


76 


fHE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


courage, of talent—men capable of lofty and heroic acts of devotion—were absorbed in their 
viler nature, which was now so thoroughly roused, and the presiding demon might laugh 
malignantly as he beheld them retreating farther from heaven, and plunging recklessly into 
the deeps of the bottomless pit. 

In the course of less than half an hour the Count had won every sous that Fabian pos¬ 
sessed. His own winnings had gone. His own money followed it. He had still available 
resources; and, had he stopped here, his individual loss in reality would not have been so 
great. But to behold a princely sum thus vanish from his grasp, made his blood boil wrath- 
fully. As well all go as a part. As well be entirely ruined as be beggared thus. He was 
poor otherwise, but he had been contented. That night he had been rich, and above all 
fear for the future. He was now becoming a pauper. What matter ? It was but a fever¬ 
ish fit. He would follow Fortune to the last;—stake all that he possessed; and then— 
suicide would terminate the whole. Such were his thoughts, as, with eyes full of blood, he 
assumed an atrocious sang-froid , and laughed as he watched the agitation of the Count, 
who was unfortunate enough to win. 

“ After all,” said the Count, “ this is, see you, a golden shower that makes me feel 
horribly afraid. I see red on each piece already.” 

“It is all one,” replied Fabian carelessly ; “ your fortune binds you in chains of brass. 
I am not bankrupt yet; and you must win all, or allow me to recover, at least, what I 
have lost.” 

“ Zounds, mon ami!" exclaimed the Count; “do you not think that we had better 
defer this till another evening? I am—” 

“ We will play on, Monsieur le Compte, if you please,” interrupted Fabian coldly, but 
with an implacable determination in his tone. “ I have a considerable sum at my banker’s, 
for which I will write a check.” He then named the sum, and the Count, with evident 
chagrin, counted down an equivalent sum from his own immense stock. 

The boxes rattled again. The fatal cubes again brought about the same results to the 
unlucky Fabian. His countenance became demoniacal; but he was wonderfully cold. 
Another hour beheld him stripped of all his money, his watch and jewellery, his books, 
pictures—in effect, every literal thing that he possessed in the world were lost. 

The young man, with an eye in which madness was absolutely glaring, sat in stupified 
silence, looking vacantly before him for a few moments; and the Count felt a strong 
shudder pervading his frame, as he beheld the utter ruin he had in a manner, but 
indirectly, caused. 

“ Fabian ! Fabian !” he exclaimed, aroused at once to a sense of the ignoble position, 
the hideous passion for play had reduced them both to. Ardently loving his friend, so 
young, so noble, and so accomplished ; seeing in the gigantic despair of that haggard and 
distorted face, otherwise so eminent for its beautiful expression, that the death of every 
earthly hope was legibly written, he was willing to undo what he had begun :— 

“Fabian!” he said, “this is wrong, and degrading to us both. I know not what 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


77 


infamous tyranny lias placed me under so vile an impulse. We have both been mad. 
Take back your gold, Fabian,—take back even the half then. I insist upon it—take— n 

u Monsieur le Compte,” said Fabian slowly, “ men of honour do not act thus. The 
gamester who loses, must not dare to tempt the charity of the winner. Beware that you 
insult me then—” 

“ Fabian! my friend—” 

“ Do not repeat your offer, unless you would have me do immediate violence either upon 
you or myself. Such a thing was never known; and if I am a gambler, I am not to 
depend on the pity of another. No more of that, sir ; I insist upon it.” 

“ Be it so,” replied the Count, who, however, had another idea, and who thought that 
it would be hardly judicious to oppose the young man’s will at such a moment, and under 
such irritating circumstances ; he, therefore, merely contented himself with taking a turn or 
two about the floor, thus giving Fabian time to compose himself if he thought proper, and 
racking his thoughts to discover a plan by which he could repair the dreadful mischief to 
which he had been accessory in committing, and through which he had been borne by a 
delirious rapidity that almost appalled him. 

Fabian sat like one spectre-stricken. His breath came and went between his shut teeth, 
and his hands were clasped in his hair. His lips were bloodless, and he seemed turned to 
stone. 

In the meantime, the two anxious gentlemen who were waiting without, having allowed 
the guard to pass by them, again emerged from their obscurity, and bent their eager glances 
at the lighted windows. 

u Peste!” muttered Monsieur Lazioli; “one of them is a devil of a time in ruining the 
other. I care not who it is; but, of a verity, I am not disposed to waste all my time here, 
and meet with an ungrateful return.” 

“ You are right, Monsieur,” returned the Marquis, sententiously; “ not to add, that we 
should be a pair of considerably great fools, to miss seeing our friends again.” 

“ Exactly my opinion,” observed Lazioli ) “ now, in the course of things, a man cannot 
remain in one place for ever.” 

“ It is against the law of nature, not to speak of many minor laws, which forbid an ab¬ 
surdity so glaring.” 

“ Then, Monsieur le Marquis, if we have patience, and wait here till the day break in 
fact, we shall see one of them.” 

“ I do not doubt it,” responded his companion; “ and, what is more, Monsieur Lazioli, 
we shall see one of them within this hour; for, pardieu, if they do not see the necessity of 
moving, it is we who must show them a necessity for doing so.” 

“Eh !” cried Lazioli, “ what is that you mean?” 

“ Mille tonnere!' n cried the other suddenly, “ is the devil in the place? Behold! ” and 
in truth, there was reason for this exclamation. 

Between the lofty windows and the light, the outline of a human form was vividly 

U 


78 


*THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


distinct. The windows were long, reaching from the ground to a height of seven or 
eight feet; and over these were merely the blinds fallen, without the curtains being 
drawn. 

This form wore, at the moment, an attitude as significant as terrifying. Gigantic, severe, 
and violent in the action it assumed for a moment, it was the ideal of Satan, in a mood of 
triumphant wickedness, of baffled malice, or of malignant hatred—caused by an anticipa¬ 
tion of a design nipped in the very instant of its germination. In fact, it was utterly impos¬ 
sible to assign to it any distinct character. 

The form belonged to Fabian, who had suddenly started from his chair, and with the 
gesture of a maniac—shaking his clenched hand above his head, and with the other strik¬ 
ing his brow—at the same moment, exclaimed:— 

“ I have it—another stake, Monsieur le Compte—another stake, and against which you 
shall put doAvn every franc you have won; for I swear to you, that it is worth it—that I 
—were I to lose my stake, and had on the morrow the means of recovering it, it would double 
—treble—aye, quadruple, the amount you now count on your side of the table.” 

The Count, startled by the wild vehemence of his friend, had suddenly turned to listen 
and to look. 

“ I challenge you,” shouted Fabian; u I challenge, you accept—as a matter of course— 

for though it is not gold, it is a trinket, I tell you—that—that-,” here he appeared to 

be almost choking. The impetuous torrent of his words were possibly the cause. 

u Yes!” he added, with a slow and measured solemnity, u it is worth the stake—you 
accept?” 

u I accept!—yes,—willingly,” replied the Count, and sat down. 

Fabian had let his hands fall and clasp each other convulsively. His forehead was bent 
down as if he felt himself degraded. His look was full of anguish, and his whole aspect 
was expressive of ruin—ruin, mental and physical. The Count was distressed beyond 
measure. This phase of Fabian’s temper perplexed him, and he knew not what to do. He 
thought, however, that the best thing was to give in to the mood of his friend, and he did so. 

Drawing his breath with a shiver, such as a man would involuntarily give who had 
suddenly been submerged in water, and drawn out of it, Fabian hurriedly left the chamber 
at a door opening into one beyond. He appeared again in a few moments, holding in his 
hand a bronze urn of antique workmanship, and of curious and striking form. 

When he crossed the doorway, he seemed staggering beneath its weight. The moment, 
however, that he met the Count’s eye, he became changed. His lips wore a smile—his 
step was light—his movement rapid—but all was distorted, feverish, and enraged. 

u There’s my stake, Count,” he said, placing it down, and speaking as though he were 
swallowing that heart-swelling which sometimes rises in the throat, and threatens to choke 
one; ct there it is.” His gaiety grew fierce. u You think it a rare piece of antiquity, with 
its dark crest, and its antique chasing; but it is worth the stake, Monsieur,—worth the stake, 
and I will set it, yes, I will set it, though I have treasured it—and—and-.” 




THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


79 


And thus, with fiery tears bursting forth, and a loud sob, which was changed into a 
dissembling laugh, he unloosed his grasp of it, and applied himself to the wine. 

Aye, to the wine! To that potent magician which adds fuel to fire ; and which, fierce 
as a raging whirlwind, useth a power which men laugh at, and yet succumb to; which 
mocks them in the moment of their security, and hurls them down the declivity, from 
which they can never hope to return. 

Medicine and poison,—bane and antidote. In its own gracious nature it can add to the 
blessings of life; but abused by the man whose passions are beyond the restraints of his 
reason, it becomes to him a stumbling-block, tripping up his heels perpetually, and drunken 
with which, he blasphemously lisps out his own destruction. 

They sat to play. It was a terrible moment,—for the young man was silent, and 
trembling from head to foot. The Count threw carelessly. He would have given his life 
to have lost. But the dice were true. Fortune still showered her hideous gifts upon him. 
The last cast was made, and he was a winner! 

With a face like that of a dead man, the unfortunate Fabian said, in tones of such 
wondrous calmness that they froze the listener’s blood, u Again, the wine! My friend, 
take your prize, and leave me. In the morning,” he hurriedly added , 11 you shall see me— 
no words, no objection, no reason or entreaties,—it is yours, take it, and—leave me. I am 
sick and weary, and would sleep.” 

“ Fabian!” 

v 

“ Monsieur le Compte, I have nothing more to stake,” interrupted Fabian sternly, and 
almost sadly,—take it, and say no more. Go, my friend—call upon me in the morning. 
I may ask you to do me a service.” 

11 Which I will willingly do, my friend,” returned the Count; and then taking up his 
gold, and his prize, the strange urn, which was somewhat heavy, he bade Fabian, “Adieu!” 
and departed, not without some internal instinct that the mischief was not yet complete. 
But he had no other course left him to pursue. The unbending obstinacy of Fabian’s 
disposition—the false sense of honour now strung to a tension, by the fierce mood of bitter¬ 
ness with which he looked upon his recent losses; the wide—the u casing ” ruin which 
enshrined him, warped his better judgment, and he was left alone. 

11 Attention! ” said the Marquis, compressing his lips till they were bloodless, and placing 
his hand upon the weapon he concealed in his dress, bent his glittering eye upon the window, 
and then upon the porch, from which he every moment expected some one to emerge. 

Monsieur Lazioli was ready also, but he said, “ How, after all, are we to be certain ? 
It will be useless, you will reflect, to bestow our attentions upon the man who has nothing 
to take care of. Eh!” 

u What would you have, my friend ? ” quietly asked the Marquis. “ Convictions are 
instinctive, and after all, should we guess wrongly, there is no reason why, after having 
looked to the one, we should not extend the same favour to the other; assure yourself, 
that I have no wish to waste time.” 


80 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


u Hush! he comes, and by Styx he is loaded too.” 

As he spoke, the Count at the moment came forth with the urn in his hand, and the 
door was closed after him by the sleepy porter. Placing his burden down a moment, in 
order to button up his great-coat, as the night air was chill, with stealthy, cat-like steps 
the two chevaliers d?Industrie came nearer and nearer, but with the view only of keeping as 
close to him as was consistent, without arousing suspicion too quickly, until, in some more 
dark and lone neighbourhood, they could pounce upon their victim, and commit the assas¬ 
sination without fear of interruption. 

The Count glanced round him, and taking up the urn walked rapidly on. He 
passed beneath the flickering lights, and was just entering into a dark and narrow street, 
when the sound of feet, moving with a kind of caution, struck his ear. A few faint 
rays of moonlight gave him some little glimpses of the lone spot, and passing the 
urn from his right to his left hand, he grasped his strong and heavy cane, and hurried 
forward. 

But a few steps only. He could hear the panting breath of one in rapid pursuit, and 
darting a glance over his shoulder, was just enabled to stoop, as the form of a man, with 
light and agile bounds, darted upon him from behind, with a blue and glittering knife in 
his hand. His sudden stooping, and the rapid rush of his enemy, caused the latter not 
only to miss his aim, but also to precipitate himself head first over his shoulder with such 
violence, that his forehead, sounding with a crash as his head saluted the pavement, con¬ 
vinced the Count that th efourlm was decidedly hors de combat. 

A rapid and tremendous sweep of his good cane felled the Marquis, who followed with 
the same imprudent haste, and he fell to the ground stunned. A black pool, slowly gather¬ 
ing round the head of the first robber, intimated that he was dangerously hurt. A moment’s 
thought convinced the Count that his best plan was quickly to retrace his steps, and reach 
his own hotel by a path somewhat more circuitous, but also far more secure. In half an 
hour he was lodged in his own chamber, and his curiosity was attracted by the urn, which 
he now began to look at with minute care. 

Sitting down with it on the table before him, he began, by the light of the brilliant 
taper, to examine the rare chasing that was elaborated on its surface. It was one of those 
charming pastoral scenes of Pan piping in the wild glades of Arcady, with Silenus slumber¬ 
ing in the summer morn, and the fauns dancing around, such as the matchless pencil of 
Poussin could have limned only. 

The lid was formed into a tongue of fire consuming a heart, so beautifully wrought that 
the anatomist could have traced it, vein, and nerve, and muscle, with the greatest ease. 
He essayed to take it off, and in doing so it fell to the ground. A cloud of dust rose in 
the air, while a dark mass of the same cineritious matter lay on the floor. The urn was 
emptied. 

The suddenness of the accident startled him. The sound of the ringing metal had 
hardly died away, when the conviction struck him, that these were the sacred ashes of one 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 81 

who had lived, loved, and died; and then there broke across his mind a dim idea of an 
old tale of misfortune, in which Fabian had been the principal actor, some years ago. 

He took it up, and began to examine it within. At the bottom was placed a shining 
plate of silver, on which was engraved the following words in a bold and legible manner:— 

Amalie. Juin 17 me - 
Pitt and Paiidon ! 

Miserere ! 

That miserere was, undoubtedly, the text of a history as sad and full of bitterness as ever 
recorded the anguish of one human being; and the Count, who had for the last two hours 
experienced a revulsion of feeling, which filled him with the most poignant sensation of 
pain for what had that evening occurred, could scarcely restrain his tears. 

What was to be done ? The dark tale, already so full of tragedy, was likely to become 
still more so. Acting upon the impulse of the moment, he seized his hat, and rushing down 
stairs, flew, rather than ran, towards Fabian’s lodgings. 

He arrived at the door at the very moment that he heard a sound, which sent a thrill of 
horror throughout his frame. 

Fabian had just blown his brains out! 

The Count gave his spoils to the charities of Paris, and left the country. 

Of the two chevaliers we have nothing further to relate. 


X 


82 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


CHAPTER III. 

If I do not say something about my long friend, Ewart Dewbank, who went prowling 
about the streets of Paris with the industry peculiar to him, seeking for curiosities greater than 
himself, my reader will begin to imagine that I have dropped him in a manner as uncere¬ 
monious as it would be unnecessary; and as for Ralph Potter, who was cramming his 
portfolio daily with all manner of sketches, he has been put too conspicuously forward to be 
forgotten in this manner. 

After the first night and day, during which we staid at an hotel out of the Rue St. 
Denis, and which ive found to be more expensive than was necessary, we then sought for 
lodgings, which would be convenient, agreeable, and economical,—and which, above all 
things, are in Paris impossible to be obtained. There is so much dirt, unscrupulous 
curiosity, actual indecency in the false delicacy of the “porters” of such establishments, 
as would deter the boldest from such a proceeding. 

Some of the “ hotels,” or lodging-houses, to which I went, were of enormous magnitude, 
and contained within themselves a perfect city, one half of which knew scarcely anything of 
the other. One of the great miseries of these places is the hebdomadal waxing of the floors, 
during which, if you cannot leave your apartment, you listen to the most infernal thumping 
overhead it is possible to conceive. This business, which consists in pounding wax on a 
floor, and then rubbing it with a small hard brush till the whole takes a high polish, and 
is danced over to a dangerous pitch of slipperiness, is done by a frotteur. 

In these huge caravansaries live ex-peers, priests, police, artists, money-lenders, and a 
host of others, professional or not, as the case may be. Each lodger has one, two, three, 
or more chambers, en suite, according to his dignity, his means, and the number he has to 
house; and the most amusing as well as annoying mistakes sometimes occur, in conse¬ 
quence of the ringing of the wrong bells, confounding messages, making a common occur¬ 
rence of life as intricate, by means of a blunder, as a French drama. Having held 
council, and made several attempts to procure what we wanted, we thought it best, 
finally, to relinquish the idea we at first entertained, and calling in our worthy host, we 
entered into such an arrangement with him, as left us perfectly at ease, being well lodged, 
fed, and attended upon, and at a proportionately reasonable cost. 

We were seated at breakfast one morning, enjoying ourselves over cold fowl, grilled 
bones, eggs, delicious white bread, and coffee,—that, in Paris, has an aroma and flavour 
which you cannot obtain elsewhere, owing to their superior mode of preparing it,—when 


TILE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


83 


we began, as usual, to relate to each other what we had seen, said, done, or discovered. In 
fact, over breakfast, as we did not always dine together, we grew to be perfectly convivial. 

“ Well, Ralph, my boy,” said Ewart, “ what have you got new in your scrap-book?” 

This introductory question always led us into an examination of his amusing stock, 
among which were several very characteristic sketches of Parisian low life. 

“1 have endeavoured to describe these,” said he, “ in such a manner as shall throw the 
best light upon the habits and peculiarities of a class who are really remarkable in many 
respects. Hanging on the outskirts of society, the mendicant, the rag-picker, the inhabi¬ 
tant of the Fauxbourg, is the type of a very extensive class, who have privileges and 
immunities which are incomprehensible to the generality of people.” 

“ Let us see, then, in what manner you have done this business,” said I gravely, and 
with the air of one who was about to pass a solemn and elaborate criticism upon the 
matter—to censure or to praise, as in my wisdom I should see fit. 

“Let it alone, Ralph,” began Ewart, pursing up his lips. “Look at the conceited 
fellow, and be hanged to him,” he added; “I calculate that he thinks the editor of the 
weekly ‘bos’ a fool to him, and no mistake, just because we’ve put the chalking down of 
the matter in his hand. I have been obliged to pass myself a vote of thanks,” continued 
Ewart, with an unruffled face, addressing me, for the immense fatigue, anxiety, and judg¬ 
ment I have endured and exhibited, in regulating the out-door department of the exchequer— 
cheapening dinners—seeing beds aired.” 

“ Bah! ” I interrupted him; “ it’s nothing but sheer jealousy on your part, and you 
know it. Why, how the deuce would you have put down in black and white this most 
interesting matter I have just been reading to you,” I continued, with an assumed air of 
indignation, as I pointed to the MSS. lying on the table beside us, “ evident proofs of my 
industry, as well of my consummate talent—” 

“ Consume you,” muttered Dewbank, “ your tongue runs like greased lightning. 
Ralph, get him the papers, or the critter will be getting into his flurry—” 

“ It is not yet perfect,” replied Ralph modestly; “ and for a few days you must excuse 
me if I seem dilatory. Some of these evenings I will read it you, and then you can, if 
you think fit, blend it into the whole mass.” 

“ Very good,” I rejoined. “ It is not I who am in a hurry, but—” 

“ Oh ! oh ! ” laughed Ewart, “ as there is some one who is remarkably quick at over¬ 
taking others who do not walk so fist, and as you are not the man, I have no doubt but 
you have some one in your eye. Don’t look slandenticular, darn you,” he added, “ but 
pour out some more coffee ; and Ralph, another bone, my boy,” and he held out his plate, 
for he was a real lion at breakfast, and would have alarmed a contractor. 

“ Now,” said I at last, after we had with no small diligence applied ourselves lustily 
to the viands, “ let us arrange how we are to spend the day. Where will you go, 
Dew bank ? ’ ’ 

“ I mean to go to the Champs Elysees,” he replied, “ and wander about that delightful 


84 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


spot. There is to be a fete of flowers in the evening, accompanied by brilliant illumina¬ 
tions ; and what’s more, I mean to write down, too, all I see and hear—” 

K What all?” I asked, with an innocent surprise. 

“ Jealous again! ” shouted Dewbank. u Why, ’drat the man, does he think that none 
are as clerkly as himself? I’ll tell you what, Henry Clay Crockett, 1 Pride goeth before a 
fall!’” 

11 Very well said,” I responded, and with due emphasis; “let us see then what you 
mean to do. And you, Ralph, have you any particular locality which you intend to visit ?” 

“ No ; I shall ramble about, sketch a little, and ramble again ; and, perhaps, add a little 
to what I have already done respecting the lower orders: they amuse me very much.” 

11 Yery good,” I replied; “ in that case let us start forth. For my part, I am going to 
see what remains of the ancient Sorbonne, that remarkable institution that played so great 
a part in the state business of France; and, perchance, I may pick up a little worth notice.” 
And after a few more words of this sort we parted, each to follow his object. 

The Sorbonne had always interested me; because it has that peculiar 'prestige about it 
which belongs to the traditions of the middle ages, and because it suggests to me those 
polemical strifes which were productive of so many extraordinary results, during the transi¬ 
tion which took place in the human mind from total and unquestioning belief, to sceptism 
and doubt, and finally to Voltairism, infidelity, and socialism. 

It stands on the south of the Seine, surrounded by a number of churches, institutions, 
colleges, libraries, and so on. Turning out of the Rue St. Jaques, you observe the beauti¬ 
ful proportions of the chapel erected by Richelieu in 1659. It suffered in company with 
many other public edifices of Paris during the Revolution, and was only saved from total 
destruction by Napoleon himself. 

The Sorbonne was the incarnation of the logic and the creed of the French nation. It 
was what Lambeth is to London, and the Vatican to Rome. It embodied the learning, 
the religion, the bigotry, and intolerance of every age. As a moral inquisition, where 
questions of logic, painfully refined, were subtilized upon, till it was not clear what formed 
the subject of dispute, it assumed the power to condemn to fire and the axe, as well as to 
afford a sanctuary for those who claimed its protection. 

This ecclesiastical college, which blended monachism with jurisprudence, and the 
sciences with the worship of the Virgin, was illustrated, so to speak, with lofty names, and 
could boast of brave and talented men. Cond£ and Bossuet supported theological dogmas 
within its walls. The Reformation, which attacked everything, at last attacked the Sor¬ 
bonne, and it fell, like Csesar, at the foot of the capital. 

There is no question, however, but that the Sorbonne had fulfilled its mission in the 
civilization of France. It had protected Aristotle, and perpetuated his sophisms. It was 
now to adopt or to combat the theories of the Encyclopedists. The mind was no longer 
subjected to a blind belief in the infallibility of the Pope. Men spoke of liberty of con¬ 
science even when the haughtiest of the Bourbons could fling his grumbling subjects into 


TIIE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


85 


the Bastile. Why, if the Bastile, with its grey turrets and ashlar walls, came down so 
much faster than it was budded, why should the Sorbonne exist upon the errors of men ? 

The numerous schools and academies which, in the thirteenth century, became so power¬ 
ful and effectual throughout Europe,—more particularly when abstruse theology became 
the bone of contention, so to speak, and where the Roman Catholic unfolded his gonfalon 
on this side the Alps,—with one accord acknowledged the Sorbonne as their superior 
and head. 

Robert de Sorbonne, a man of wealth, piety, and learning, the friend and chaplain of 
the chivalric Saint Louis, founded this noble institution in the year 1250, and for centuries 
after, as is well known, its very name embodied the glories, the labours, and the contro¬ 
versies of each succeeding period. 

The Sorbonne has turned out some of the finest orators, the most clear-sighted statesmen, 
the most profound philosophers, and men of genius, that France can boast of; but then, 
also, it can point out to Diderot, D’Alembert, Rosseau, and Voltaire, as men that it has 
successively attacked and defended. 

At the present day it exists as a convention. It is a chapel, or a church, it is true, but 
it is merely the shrivelled carcase of the past. We do not even promise, in the lightly tex¬ 
tured web of our illustrative sketch of its past day, to depict it truly ; and not it so much, 
as to express by it how, in its protective capacity, it could dare public opinion, and coerce 
the moral convictions of men—not always successfully, it must be owned. We entitle our 
promised tale, then, 


£TIjc |!) am merman of gbt. gjntjucs. 

In the days when the old Sorbonne frowned upon the quaint streets, and boasted of its 
sanctuary,—and at a time that the whole precincts swarmed with a mass of retainers, 
dependants, alms-receivers, bravoes, and men of questionable life,—there lived a young 
armourer in one of the dark and rambling localities in its neighbourhood, by familiar name 
Jean Gondi, otherwise the “Hammerer;” and from morn to night there rang, from out 
his smithy, the sounding blows struck with sturdy arm upon his flashing anvil. The 
prestige of the old sanctuary was then, as before and after, much used, and greatly abused. 
The population of that district held their habitation in peculiar tenure, chiefly for uphold¬ 
ing the extended privileges of the institution by force of applause, and even blows. And 
at times, when the citizens grew rebellious against the priestly power at some outrage 
committed upon them, recourse was had by the superiors to those brawling ruffians who 
were the terror of the city. Indeed, any offender against the law obtained protection and 
shelter, if he but once placed himself beneath the wing of the venerable cloisters. 

It was on a May afternoon, in the year of grace 15—, that a wild and motley group 
were seen assembling without the walls, with more of grimness in aspect, and in greater 
disorder, than beseemed a congregation of Christian men, as was evident by the uncouth 
arms they carried, and their menacing manner. The Sorbonnists were gathered in the Great 

Y 


86 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROrE. 


Hall, in the centre of whom stood their superior, who "betrayed his fear in the very uneasy 
looks he wore, as if he greatly doubted their apparent security, and dreaded the results of 
some outrageous insult offered against the peaceful people. 

On the steps of the inner sanctuary stood a young gallant, whose elegant dress hung in 
tatters about him. His golden lace was all frayed and torn. Blood was on his brows, 
and his hands were dabbled with the same crimson hue. Grasping the broken sword with 
which he had turned to bay upon his assailants outside the walls, till his loud cries for 
“ Sanctuary” opened for him the gate, he was dragged in wounded and fainting—just 
in time to prevent his being torn in pieces, and the huge door again swung to. 

“ ’Tis but an idle freak, good father,” he said, in a gasping voice, when questioned; “ I 
did but snatch a kiss from a wench, when these boors—hark! ” he cried, for the tumult 
without was growing more menacing and terrible. Suddenly they heard a deep voice with¬ 
out crying aloud, “ Rescue! rescue! help, citizens!” and the heavy clanging of a hammer 
struck upon the ear, ringing on the huge bars of the great gate. “ That is Jean Gondi 
the Hammerer,” said a servitor, in a loud whisper, “ and lie is no child to be frightened 
away with words.” 

“ Woe to him for that!” muttered the superior. Then goingup to the young noble, he 
spoke, “ My son, I trust that this is nothing serious, for we are like to get into ill feeling 
with the king. He swears by his head that we are stretching—nay, misusing our pri¬ 
vileges, and that we must look to it closely. Is it no more than what you say?” he added 
anxiously. 

“ Why, to speak truth,” began the young man, “ it is not all gospel. I had taken a 
fancy to one of their women, and I carried her away this morning.” 

“ St. Denis defend us! ” muttered the perplexed superior; “ you bring the worst spirits 
of the citv and the district about us. Who is the damsel?” 

•j 

“ The handsome Margota, so please you, father,” was the answer. 

“ The daughter of the king’s bargemaster, and the betrothed wife of this bold armourer, 
who hath laughed us to our very face ere now; one of the most intractable souls in the 
whole multitude. Now, by the saints! this is most perilous, Messire!” 

Outside, the blows were redoubling in sound and effect, and cries of “ Fire the monks 
out! ” “Pull the w r alls down! ” “ Beat in the doors! ” arose above the din, and the hammer 
of the stout Jean still re-echoed through the vast arches. 

“ Father!” said the noble, grasping the doorside, “thou owest not a little to me and to 
my order; discharge part of thy debt then in protecting me, or I, and we, will leave you 
to fall; you cannot stand without us. And if we now and then call on you to lend aid in 
so trifling a matter, it is no more than the doing of a good turn.” 

“ Call you it a trifle to run off with the armourer’s young bride! ” And a smile, as if 
in derision of the youth’s petulance, and his knowledge of what kind of spirit the ‘Hammerer’ 
was, broke on the lips of the superior, while a wild shout from beyond the gate, mingling 
with sounds of the heterogeneous strife, raised his alarm to its utmost pitch, and evinced 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


87 


that, whoever they were that thus demanded admission, they were too determined in their 
purpose to be driven back. 

There remained to the superior one more chance ere the wild rabble should break in the 
doors; for, if they once did that—once defiled the sanctuary with their feet, or violated the 
holy air with unholy words—if one of them did but once lift his hand, or scoff the 
churchman in the face of his congregation, all was over; nothing could save them farther, 
for the man who led them, though he otherwise bore a character for peace, obedience, and 
respect, and had paid all the dues demanded of him without a murmur, still his daring and 
courage were acknowledged; The storm of fighting without grew thicker and louder; the 
human tide rocked to and fro, as the superior looked from a narrow slit, and saw that the 
ready rascals who sometimes drew weapons on his side were flying in all directions. The 
stalwart form of Jean the smith—grim, and swart, and large—striking right and left, being 
conspicuous above all. 

Making up his mind at once, the superior walked up to the great cathedral door, 
where the clangour was loudest, and opened it so suddenly, that those in the first rank, 
dazzled and awed by his portly presence, fell back in a kind of dismay. 

“Room there, my friends! room for me!” shouted out a loud voice, rising above the 
press; “fall back there, ye rascal caitiffs! By hammer and anvil! ye are scarcely worth 
the striking down;” and as he spoke, Jean fought his way with ease through the rabble 
of sworders and retainers of the lordly ecclesiastic. 

“Now, what means this unseemly brawling within these holy precincts?” demanded 
the superior, with a tone of severity and command. 

“ What means it!” exclaimed the young smith, standing with head still covered before 
him; his herculean chest panting from exertion, and his passionate mood thoroughly 
roused; “what means it, eh! my holy father! why, that the roof of your house gives 
shelter to the lordly ruffians who tear our brides from their homes, and come for safety to 
the church, that from thence they may laugh at us!” 

“That’s it. Cordieu! Jean! that’s it!” roared a gigantic fellow, holding an axe on 
his great shoulders, and crying out to his followers for torches. 

“ Ask the shaveling what he values the honour of our maidens at, that he gives absolu¬ 
tion with such ease,” cried another, flinging a stout brother or two out of his way. 

“Peace, then, all of you, and beware the ban of the Church. And thou, Jean Gondi, 
otherwise the 1 Hammerer,’”- 

“ Ay—ay, that’s his name, the brave lad! ” shouted a chorus. 

“ Do thou depart, and be thankful that I let thee hence without heavier punishment. 
Thy penance shall be light,-only to disperse this crowd, and to forget the maiden.” 

“ I swear to thee, lord superior, by the head of Saint Jaques, that I will wrap this place 
in one sheet of sweltering fire, and fling you into the midst, if you stand there uttering 
those abhorrent words to me ! Forget my young bride ! Bah! I will not forget! On ! ” 
he shouted, as pushing the superior with irreverent hand from the door, he leaped with a 




88 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


single bound across the chancel aisle. Bursting the small door beyond, he dragged the 
fugitive noble, trembling and dismayed, from his hiding-place, and with a strong arm 
would have killed him where he stood, but a voice cried out of the crowd, “ Jean Gondi! 
my son, spare the poor knave. My daughter is returned to me safe and spotless.” Where¬ 
upon, amid great uproar, the boon thus begged was granted, and the noble escaped the 
sacrifice, to the wrath of the people. 

In the meantime the king had heard of the disturbance which took place at the Sor- 
bonne ; and as the young noble was one of his especial favourites, he had expressed great 
wrath, and swore by St. Denis that there should be an example made of the bold man, 
who had so daringly lifted up his hand against the venerable institution and its order. 

Therefore the superior had brought forth a paper, with full attestation, how Jean Gondi, 
the “ Hammerer,” had broken into the sanctuary, and had led an armed mob against the 
sanctuary, and with violent hands taken the sheltered man from the shelter of the Sorbonne, 
to the imminent danger of his life, bv which the authority of the superior was set to scorn, 
and the anger of the Church disdained. 

In the sanctuary, therefore, on a set day, the king was seated, surrounded by knights 
and nobles, and the superior stood forth in the midst to accuse the reckless rioter. The 
“ Hammerer” was then ordered to be led before him ; but when the king beheld his fear¬ 
less, open brow, and looked on the undaunted handsome face, and saw a native nobility 
shining through the rude garb which was indicative of his trade, and heard from his lips 
how that it was his love and devotion for the fair Margota, and how great also the wrong 
had been, the king relented in his purpose, albeit his mode of showing mercy was strange 
enough. 

“ Knave!” said the monarch, “ in spite of all thou sayest, thou art guilty of insult to 
thine own lawful sovereign, to the holy Church of whose faith I am defender, and to the 
sanctity of this building, for all of which thou deservest to hang as high as Notre Dame !” 

“So please you, sire,” stoutly replied the “Hammerer,” “you had better hang up 
these lazy Sorbonnists, and let honest men enjoy their own in peace, rather than hang one 
of the best subjects you have in the land,” and the bold smith smiled confidently. 

“FeteDieu!” exclaimed the king ; “ say’st thou so ! Dost thou not fear, then ? Hast 
thou no dread for what thou hast done?” 

“ Not I, by Saint Jaques !” replied Jean Gondi, folding his arms daringly, while, for 
an instant, the brow of the king grew black and louring. 

“ Mercy, sire, mercy!” cried suddenly, in a soft, gentle voice, some one beside him, and 
the daughter of his old bargemaster knelt before him: “ Mercy, sire,” she said, “ it was for 
my sake he loved me so much.” 

The king smiled with delight upon her winning face, and laid his hand on her head, 
when the fierce “ Hammerer” impetuously broke out with, “ Never pray for me, my 
Margota, if such is to be the price of life ; to die for the woman one loves, is better than 
living in a land where the king cannot prevent his people from insult and oppression.” 


















































































■ 
























































































6^66716 67 / 



Y/VJ€£7, 


/ Jh-rzs J 










THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


89 


These bold truthful words stung the king to the quick. u How, sirrah! dost thou 
speak in this manner to us f Art thou not repentant?” 

u No, by hammer and anvil! and had that lord been in your majesty’s chamber, I would 
have dragged him out, though your own royal hands had held him back.” 

11 Curb thy speech and temper, good fellow,” replied the king, repressing the frown on 
his lips. “ Thou art bold, and mayest be right; and I remind me thou didst spare the 
youth’s life. Thou art forgiven. Tear up that paper, therefore, lord superior, and bless 
their union. So bold a fellow deserves so pretty a wife. And believe this also, Jean 
Gondi,” said the monarch, u that the king is not so unjust as he may be said to be, nor so 
powerless to protect as thou dost deem him.” 

Therefore, amid much rejoicing, the union took place, and the superior did as he was 
commanded. 


<£fmmps (JBIpsccs. 

The substance of Dewbank’s observations on the Champs Elysees amounts to the 
following :— 

This magnificent district of the city, fitly called the Elysian Fields of Paris, form a vast 
pleasure ground, beautifully laid out, whither, on the fine days of the summer, and particu¬ 
larly on the occasion of grand national fetes, the whole world of the city assembles to walk 
about, to admire, to be admired, to behold the brilliant illuminations, and the chef-d'ouvres 
of civic rejoicings. In Paris, these things are matters of real interest. 

From the Place de la Concorde to the Barriere de l’Etoile, its length is about a mile. 
It is, at its eastern boundary, about four hundred, and at its western seven hundred yards 
wide. The Quai de Conference bounds it on the one side, and the Palace of the Elysee 
Bourbon on the other. 

This fine space began to be of real value to the Parisians in the time of Louis XIV., 
when the enterprising Colbert first laid it out, and planted it with those trees which now 
give so grateful and cooling a shade. At its termination is the square, named successively 
Louis XV., Place de la Revolution, and Place de la Concorde—a place that, during the fury 
of the Revolution, offered successively, and every day, some of the ghastliest spectacles of 
that horrible time that the city could boast of. Here are observed two splendid statues of 
Ecuyers , or grooms, mastering their untractable horses, executed with admirable boldness 
and skill. 

On fine days, usually, the citizen, with his wife and family, may be observed with a 
sedate gravity enjoying the air and appearance of this attractive spot. The Italian boy 
with his organ, the Savoyard with his monkey or his marmozet, the juggler, the tumbler, 
might occasionally have been seen, drawing together picturesque groups, in which the 
smaller generation of future republicans formed no small portion. 

The dancing dolls too found an auditory, and the droll squeak of Punch always created 
a charivari even greater than his own. Each of these formed the nucleus of a noisy, laugh- 

Z 


90 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


ing, happy crowd. From the noisy gamin , who is “up” to every tiling, to the more 
aristocratic promenader from the Fauxbourg St. Germains, you will find every shade and 
variety of the Parisian—the real cockney of the overgrown city. 

Nothing can possibly be recommended as a more certain remedy against ennui , than to 
mingle of an afternoon, and just as the golden beams of the descending sun are purpled 
with the twilight, and creates for half an hour a glory in the unruffled heavens, almost 
passing description—nothing, we say, can be a better safeguard against the weight of 
melancholy thoughts, than to look at the smiling faces that throng you. A beneficent, a 
happy smile is infectious, and you assuredly become at last perfectly radiant. 

Go by the splendid promenade of Longchamps—listen to the soft murmur of the wind 
among the leaves—listen to that low clear laugh, and look for the pretty face it introduces 
to you! Turn round to admire in the distance the splendid sculptures, the winged steeds 
on the pedestals : on one sits Fame with her ringing clarion, on the other Mercury the 
Victorious, if such a title may be assigned the Parisian cattle-stealer of the Homeric ballads. 

A fete day to your true Parisian is like a sacred institution : he will not have one jot of 
the imposing ceremonials omitted ; and, besides, no one in the world can improvise one 
like him. He does it with a tact, a taste, a genius perfectly his own, and he welcomes 
every one to partake of its enjoyment. How gallantly he receives the women! how 
politely he conciliates the men! and how pleased he is to see all buoyant, dancing, and 
carolling—happy, in fact, in the full sense of the word. 

Those who have not witnessed the fetes given in honour of the “ three days ” of 1830, 
have little idea of the gigantic scale on which these things can be done. In America, we 
are too grave for them ; in England, they are, as I think, too conceited and “ snobbish.” 
There is no frantic enthusiasm, no crowds uplifting their voices in the majestic concord of 
the Marsellaise, no acclamations, and, to conclude, perhaps there are no such illuminations 
in the world. 

On these particular days, a place called the Chateau de Fleurs is embosomed in pictu¬ 
resque and scenic beauty of the most splendid kind. An elegant orchestra is built in a light 
and airy manner, and decorated with a taste which it is hopeless to imitate. Tall poles, 
whose stems are baskets filled with the rarest flowers, are fixed in the ground, and between 
them are suspended large chandeliers. Until the evening, or rather the night, these are left 
in repose, and the frequenters of the spot rather eschew this place during the daylight.; like 
epicures, feeding upon the choice morsel in expectation only, and are seen admiring the 
rope-dancers, the jugglers, the buffoonery which clothes itself with the inimitable hues of 
Watteau; while, perhaps, on an extended stage, is seen a military sham-fight. By and 
by we shall return to the illumination of the Chateau de Fleurs. 

Before the monarchy came to its decadence, there was a still more boundless prodigality 
shown towards the people. Like the Romans who cried u Panum et Circensif the good 
Parisians shouted for u Bread and Games.” Scaffoldings were erected, where provisions in 
plenty, and free of all cost, were to be had by any who chose to ask; and the fountains 




















































































































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


91 


were no longer fountains of water, but of wine , around which the old grognards assembled, 
and stoutly stuck to their posts, until they sank under the influence of the ruddy tide, and 
were borne away by the guard or their laughing friends. 

Dreadful catastrophes had, however, occurred through the rush of the eager crowd, and 
the insecurity of the scaffolding; for there are not wanting in a mob those rude and violent 
spirits, prone to mischief and violent in temper, upon whom remonstrance—that suavity 
which is so truly metropolitan—was utterly thrown away. Fired with copious libations at 
the fountains, they invaded the tables like a band of ferocious Huns. Presently a sharp crack 
gives warning of danger, but too late. In as great a hurry to escape as they were to attack, 
they become confused—the mass rocks and heaves to and fro—curses, yells, and shrieks 
rend the air, and with a dreadful crash the whole comes down. The appalling nature of 
the scene may be easily imagined. 

A repetition of these terrors, which threw a damp over every gaiety, led to the total 
abolishment of the two latter; but, in the matter of amusement, the public were amply 
compensated. The lower orders, however— not the brothers of St. Lazarus—the geaux , in 
fact—but principally the hirsute artisans, were not losers of the more solid portion of the 
festivals either, for tickets were given to those of each arrondissement, according to the 
wants and numbers of their families, and when they have thus refreshed themselves—neither 
brawling nor drunken, but elate and cheerful—they join the other groups in the promenades, 
laugh at the stale jests they hear Punch utter, grow witty themselves in being critical, and 
then prepare themselves for the huge bonne louche , for the climax of the whole day’s diver¬ 
sion, for the lighted floral fete, for the concert in the open air—delicious, enthralling, and 
fascinating to a degree—they prepare for this and for the fireworks ! 

This scene is certainly ravishing. 

The charming dresses of the women—of silk, of velvet, and of the finest woollen fabrics 
—no longer attract the attention of the observer. The ladies no longer criticise bonnets, 
caps, mantles, and cashmeres. The soft and balmy sky has become of a deep and heavenly 
blue, the stars are sparkling radiantly, and the moon is sending forth cold and silvery beams 
of light behind a fringe of clouds that are falling over the horizon. 

By this time thousands of lamps have been lighted, and the brilliancy of the floral 
palace is absolutely glorious! On the calm breeze the strains of Muzard or Strauss are 
floating, soft as the sounds of magic dulcimers beaten by fairy hands. Presently, when the 
impulsive mazurka—the less refined but bounding polka—or the admirable melody of the 
valse (the only admirable thing about it, by the way) is over, you hear human voices rising 
in fine harmony a noble chorus from the u Huguenots,” u Robert the Devil,” or some one 
or other of the grand operas of the day. It may be a simple song, a ballad; by chance it • 
may be an old English ballad, half forgotten, which, for its beauty, has been imported, and 
which carries one back to a time, perhaps, when the old grandmother sang it to us as we 
stood beside her knee. 

Throughout all that dense assemblage there rises not a sound. The thousands are still 


92 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


as death. Row after row of brown-bearded faces, of every hue and shape, and variation of 
physiognomy, from the swarthy spahi of the Algerine cohorts, to the soft and boyish com¬ 
plexion of Picardy, may be distinctly seen. Row after row of blushing, beautiful faces, 
—from the brunette to the blonde, from the dark-haired Languedocian to the fair-haired 
Norman—also appear. It is in truth pleasant to look upon them. They are entranced ; 
their brows court the cool air ; their ears drink in the music ; their hearts throb and beat! 
Suddenly the music ceases, and the signal is given for the commencement of the fireworks. 

It is, however, a false alarm, or rather, it is only preparatory. It will be half an hour 
yet ere they begin, and we can stroll leisurely about. The crowds, just this moment so 
statuesque, also begin to move, to be animated. They murmur, they speak, and the sounds 
of human voices rise like the sound of a sea. 

Between the graceful alleys, where branches arch overhead, and thick bushes wall them 
about, they walk in twos and threes. Mostly so, and few, myself (I suspect our friend 
Ewart was lugubrious at this moment) among the number, sauntered about alone, mere 
lookers-on—partakers, it is true, of the general joy, and full of admiration for the beauty, 
animate and inanimate, we beheld. 

Another signal is given, and the groups mass together again. At length, on the sea of 
upturned faces, the lurid flash of a rocket bursts forth. Up it goes with a hissing sound; 
and when far up in air it explodes, and droppings of crimson, white, purple, and blue 
flames fall, till the whole is dark again, and a charred stick falls at a distance. 

Then begins to break out billows of fire and volcanic eruptions, accompanied by sounds 
like those accompanying the bombardment of a city, in every variety of shape and form ; 
—now like huge flying dragons, green and glittering;—now like withered trees ;—anon 
like corruscating suns, followed by a million leaping tongues of flame that seem to drink 
the air dry. 

Wheels—as if myriads were revolving every way, and flinging off graceful showers 
from their circumference and centre—roaring and gyrating. The huge mass seems nothing 
but fire,—fire in the most grotesque plutonic variety. Every colour that can be imagined 
lights the sky in turn, and with a grand outbreak—as if the heart of the earth lifted itself 
up in one last throe of agony—the telluric storm roars, and blazes, and burns, till all is 
darkness. 

And in the midst of this chaos, each one begins to wend homeward beneath the 
heavenly morn. 


-palaces of part's. 

As conciseness in any of the descriptive portions of a narration is a thing to be as highly 
desired as a bishopric, I think it best to string together my ideas and impressions of those 
palaces which are most remarkable for beauty, historical association, or romantic episodes. 

Perhaps it may surprise some of my readers, that I—a progressive, go-ahead creature— 
a calculating, bargain-driving Yankee—a ring-tailed roarer—an up-wester as well as down- 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


93 


easter in fact, a Y ankee, with the usual quantity of streaked lightning, fighting alligator, 
and the prairie hull in my composition—should sit down, in a state of awful expectancy 
and great delight, to pen down a u romance” of a feudal fortress—of a palace that had its 
oubhettes , as w r ell as its paphian chambers—turrets dedicated to terror, pain, and death, and 
tapestried nooks, where the minstrel sang of love, and where the amorous lady of the castle 
received her knight, after absence and heavy fighting. 

The truth is, that by degrees associations begin to absorb the ideas; and creeds 
(traditional) belonging to the old world,—mingling in society where such respect is paid to 
the past—where it yet exercises an unbounded influence over men, be they republican, 
ultra-democratic, or yet adhering to royalty—the learning, the legendary lore, the arts, 
the sciences, the greatness, intellectual and physical, which a people proudly look up to as 
familiar examples of what they have been, and yet can boast of,—indirectly act upon the 
mind ; and I find myself devouring, with avidity, the dark and intricate history which the 
grey ruins of some old locality so loudly tell me. 

Besides, also, in our work-day world, where so much of imagination does not mingle, 
we laugh at the moon-struck monstrosities that present themselves through the medium of 
the small journalist, the poetaster, and the would-be enthusiast. The instant a man is left 
to himself under the frowning shadow of a huge dark pile, he finds instantly that imagina¬ 
tion is a Pegasus beyond his control. He romances in spite of himself. He finds himself 
evoking the sombre images that waken up one after the other, and listening, as it were, to 
the weird and awsome history the grim and shapeless turrets mutter. 

The Louvre is not exactly fitted for this, and therefore I have no romantic illustration 
to offer regarding it. It bears the impress of the modern so strongly, that the chisel and 
the trowel which builded it seem laid down but yesterday, and the sounds of dying labour 
yet faintly echo to the mental ear. 

This palace, then, connected with the Tuileries and its gardens, is, in part, of somewhat 
ancient origin. Dagobert the 11 breechless” held solemn hunting feasts there, when forests 
cast their brown shadows right down to the river side, and the bay of the hound could be 
heard from within the quaint city. 

It had been a palace, a fortress, and became afterwards a state prison. In the time of 
the Huguenots, it formed the foreground of a bloody and brutal picture ; when the assassin 
king stood at the windows, gun in hand, and shot at the shrinking people, crying, u Mor- 
dieu! kill, kill the Huguenots!” In the thirteenth century, the ancient Louvre stood 
without the walls ; as the city extended, it was enclosed witli many other places. It now 
became a royal library, a state-lodging house, where crown officers coming to Paris on 
business were housed. 

Age after age, and reign after reign, beheld this place incomplete,—even while there 
was always something being done towards it in one department or other. Louis XIV. 
decided upon completing it, as being worthy the magnificent designs of his reign. Bernini, 
an Italian of great skill, being suddenly indisposed, and sent to his own country, it was 

2 A 


94 


TI1E AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


supposed that an insuperable obstacle now presented itself, when an architect, in the shape of 
a physician, Claude Perrault, was introduced by Colbert, and the work went on with great 
spirit, till Louis, on the spur of a whimsical impulse, diverted the money to the erection of 
Versailles. Politely ferocious, courtly, and yet cold-blooded, this man, standing on the 
very summit of a most artificial civilization, combined the brutality and the vices of the 
old Roman Emperors in his single form. 

It was, however, not completed even during the reigns of his successors, till Napoleon 
arose and put the finishing stroke to it, as he did to all that he touched. This “ finishing 
stroke” is correct in more senses than one; but it was, at all events, finally roofed in, 
which it had not been before. 

With a keen eye to that renown which connects his name with the arts in eveiy pos¬ 
sible department, so that the painter, the sculptor, and the philosopher, when named, should 
also suggest his own, the Emperor laid out there a series of galleries, museums, halls, 
libraries, &c., which have no equal in the world. No royal city, for extent, splendour, 
completeness, and true magnificence, could ever exhibit such another collection—offer such 
another sight. 

On the 22nd of August, 1572, Coligni, on leaving Charles IX., was shot at, and the 
Protestant part of the citizens were seized with alarm. That infernal woman, Catherine de 
Medicis, who had the blood of Vanozza (some say) in her veins, had already written, in 
letters of blood and fire, the whole of the systematic murder that was to be done. The king 
went to visit the wounded noble, and swore that justice should be done. 

On Sunday the 24th, at two o’clock in the morning, Charles himself gave the order to 
begin the massacre. 

One can fancy him standing at the window, and looking out into the calm grey heavens. 
In the depth of the pandemonium where the council was held, stand the queen-mother, 
the Dukes of Anjou, d’Aumale, Guise, the Cardinal de Lorraine, and a few others who 
have merited perdition. 

Silence deep as death reigns over the city. The dark towers of Notre Dame, where, 
but a few days ago, Henry of Navarre was wedded to Marguerite de Valois, like silent 
sentinels, throw their sombre heads against the stars, and the iron tongues within, wait but 
a short while to thunder out the horrible secret they quiver with. 

Like a monstrous shadow—like a lurking assassin—the king stands at the window. 
Suddenly he hears a hissing whisper sounding in his ear. 11 My son, it is the time,” the 
tigress pours out, and the same moment the tocsin sounds from St. Germain-l’Auxerrois. 
A great cry of consternation rises up beyond. Blood plashes in the streets—men shriek 
and fly, then slip in the gore, and rise no more. Houses are broken open—doors smashed 
in—women and children are shot and stabbed—men set the teeth, grapple their foes, but 
twenty daggers make one huge wound—they die! The ruffians have lapped blood, and 
they tuck their sleeves up to slaughter more at ease. 

The assassination of Coligni was now completed; but if the forcats of the galleys—the 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


95 


most brutal scoundrel who would have cut a throat for a franc—had done the deed, it could 
not have been marked with features so revolting. The Duke of Guise was waiting impa¬ 
tiently in the court. “ Besme,” said he, “ have you done?' 1 ' 1 and the Duke of AngouRme 
would not believe it, unless the body were thrown out of the window. It was thrown out! 
and the features were so disfigured, that it could scarcely be recognised. Nearly ten 
thousand were murdered in Paris before the next morn came. 

Can we wonder at the agony, the bloody sweat of this Catholic king ! Can we doubt 
that the details of his death are a romance—a fiction—after reading the history of this 
deed, which the windows of the old Louvre overlooked! To brood upon this business, is 
like being oppressed by a horrible nightmare. 

The grand picture galleries of the Louvre within, offer an almost adequate compensa¬ 
tion for the gloomy thoughts which beset a man without—that is to say, if he is in the 
mood to dream over the Sabbat of St. Bartholomew. As they are being continually enriched 
by contributions from other great galleries of Paris, the removal of pictures to this place 
upon the death of their painters, thus creates a sort of moral apotheosis, and the deification 
of the artist takes place the moment that his last work is unhung at the Luxembourg or 
elsewhere, and transferred to the stately chamber of the Louvre; and, to my thinking, 
there is something befitting consular Home, in thus dignifying a man for immortality. 

Many will have heard of the grand works of Rubens, which were the glory of the 
Luxembourg. The gallery of Marie de Medicis exists only in name; for the twenty- 
four mighty paintings of that great master, floridly mythological as they are, now form the 
great centre of attraction in the Louvre. Such is the case with a vast number of others. 

Napoleon formed, in the days of his power, and of the spoliation of the museums of 
other nations, grand galleries of ancient paintings, which were divided into three schools: 
the one French, of “ home” extraction; the two others, German, including Dutch and 
Flemish, cousins all, we may say, and the Italian. In addition, there are the Greek and 
Roman Museums, the Hall of Jewels, or Salle des Bijoux, containing the most superb 
relics of the middle ages; the Salle du Trone, and the Musee Egyptian, which were pro¬ 
cured from Egypt during the invasion of Bonaparte and Kleber. The Musde de Desseins 
alone occupies some dozen or thirteen rooms, and not one quarter of the list is given. It 
would take huge volumes, and many of them, to give anything like a detail of the cum¬ 
brous yet unapproachable magnificence which surrounds you. 

Neither am I, unfortunately for me, though I expect fortunately for my readers, any 
hand at architectural description. Vitrurius, Palladia, and Wren, are authors I never even 
looked on without a “kinder” dread, and I make no attempt, therefore, at cheating myself 
into dealing with matters beyond my reach. 

In the Galerie de Henri IV. there is an annual exhibition of the works of modern art, 
and to look at the vast and really fine collection gathered at this period within the walls, 
gives one a great idea of the actual talent, both in painting and sculpture, that is constantly 
germinating and cultivating in the capital. You cannot avoid one pervading idea, how- 


96 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


ever. They strike the gazer (the foreigner I mean) with a peculiarity of touch, tone, and 
style. They are frenchified ; and if any man asks me to define my idea—to explain what 
I mean by this term—I modestly confess my inability to do so. It is something which is 
felt, but cannot be described. 

The Tuileries, or the old tile-kilns of Paris (for such was the former site of the ground), 
possesses, as an edifice, a great and significant beauty. It has been a palace of kings— 
some great and some little, and some monstrous, absurd, and infatuated—since the days of 
the horrible and fanatic Catherine de Medicis. For upwards of three centuries, royalty has 
played its u tricks before high heaven” within those walls. 

They have echoed to the sound of song and cymbal, of wassail and of wailing, of mirth 
and madness. In the grim Paris of old, with its hoary tyranny, and its great struggles to 
be great and free—in its bloody and ferocious moments, as well as in its sublime repose 
and noble calm—there were, in this now magnificent spot, dingy and repulsive groupings of 
labour in its squalor and its loathsomeness, which ought not to be, but has been, and is, that 
attracted attention to the ground because of its eligibility—because, in fact, from position, 
and the natural growth of the city, it became at last what it is—a marvel of architectural 
and picturesque beauty. 

What revolutions, moral and physical, have not been acted there ! The chronicler may 
point to the Hotel de Ville, to the National Assembly, to the fusillading at the barricades 
and the barriers; but within the Tuileries took place the deposition and the annihilation of 
the dynasty. 

What festivities! what loves! what terrible endings here and there! and what still 
more terrible catastrophical episodes have the conclusion of some love madnesses brought 
about within those stately halls! But the dynasties are dead now. The Bourbons—the 
Orleans—gone into the dust after the dust of the stormy Carlovingians and the crapulous 
Capets; and the electric fire of Napoleon burns now with a calmness that is very marvel¬ 
lous, considering its voltaic nature altogether. It was only in 1416, that a king of France 
commanded the site, by royal ordinance, to be made something like a gigantic dust-heap of. 

Delorme and Ballaut builded there a palace by command of the imperious Catherine, 
and “ the central pavilion, the adjoining wings, and the low pavilions by which they are 
terminated,” parts of the present building, are either what remained, or comprehend the 
whole of what the structure was. 

Henri IV., the u Bearnois,” had the palace extended by Decerceau and Duperac, two 
architects of some consideration in his day. What reminiscences then had the Gascon 
monarch of this sombre home of intrigue, when, in the time of his predecessor, Charles IX., 
when he was prisoner with his wife Marguerite in the said palace, and the furious Bartho¬ 
lomew Sabbat was raging without, with its wild tocsin clanging, the streets rippling with 
blood, and the very air clinging like a murder-mantle, wet and stifling, around him! 

Ilow he must have shuddered, and sworn his accustomed oath. 

It was he who united the Tuileries to the Louvre by the galleries which connect them, 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


97 


or rather began them, for these are things not to be done in a lifetime—such a lifetime as 
his, who had gathered the remnant of a half-butchered party, and made his grim and 
solemn Huguenots (like the old Covenanters, who were ready to fight to the brink of eter¬ 
nal fires, devil’s fires, or mortal man’s fires, for their awful league and covenant),—made 
them, I say, buckle on sword and breastplate, don morion, and try to kill anti-christ and 
the pope, till the edict of Nantes gave him time to breathe—and so, as he could not build, 
or even plan much, except fight right hardily, others who followed him—his son, for 
instance, Louis XIII.—completed that which the Navarrese had begun. 

A fine, blunt, rough-hewn kind of man does this u Bearnois” always seem to me. A 
jolly king—a king of Yvetot, in fact—who, in his little barony, was no more than a well- 
to-do country squire, till France saw that Navarre lay between him and the Pyrenees, and 
wished prophetically to have a future monarch to say egotistically, “ The Pyrenees exist no 
longer.” But it was only left for Napoleon, after all, to make way over, or through, huge 
alps of mountains, as St. Bernard, Mount Cenis, the Simplon, and Pampeluna testify. 

Louis XIY. could impudently say, 11 The state! it is I!” but Napoleon could say, “ I 
have an army—it does as I do—goes as I go—passes "where I pass—and, if need be, we 
storm the heights, where death alone, in his atravnental robes, mans with his legions the 
appalling battlements—they follow!” In truth, they did so; and three generations, old, 
middle-aged, and young, have died on the plains of Europe, as did the Crusaders in Asia, 
but they have found no Jerusalem. 

But to revert to Henry of Navarre, incidentally—he who used to swear hard as he hit— 
who married Charles’s sister—who promised him the town of Cahiors—which was refused 
afterwards to be given him—but who, with his white plume flying—his face white, but 
with an expression in it that Carlyle w r ould say "was 11 dreadfully earnest”—with a long- 
handled axe in his nervy hands, led his men through a rain of fire, a cataract ot mis¬ 
siles, and hewed aw T ay at the gates, beneath the very portals, and entering them at first— 
took the city! He swore, u Ventre St. Gris,” he would have his dowry, and, by my faith, 
he took it.—Who should blame him ? 

Tolerant towards all men—living beneath a rampant intolerance himself—he trended 
out of the crooked and blood-spotted path which the Machiavelian policy of former kings 
had made, and, in the spirit of a true reformer, sought to enlarge the sympathies of men, 
so that they might become the recipients of each other’s humanities. 

He forgot—but was rudely remembered of his forgetfulness—that the sombre and venge¬ 
ful Huguenot had to plunge his broad blade into many a Catholic breast, before the memory 
of the devil-sabbath of the ninth Charles, and his murderous mother, could be washed out. 

Sully was a wise counsellor in his generation—an able minister and politician; and 
Henry, with such vast good-will, fell into indolence, good-natured and easy, King-Cole 
like ; and pretty faces and black eyes could draw him aside, unless he heard the bray of 
trumpets calling to boot and saddle. He, however, did a great deal; more, I take it, than 
Louis XIV., whose labours were like the web of Penelope, undone as fast as done. The 

2 B 


98 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


knife of Ravaillac robbed France of a man who had the mental calibre—other gifts being 
corresponding—of a true hero; and then there followed nonentities—mere phantasms of 
kings. 

For heaven’s love, let us get out of the dry dust of history, else I shall have to say some¬ 
what of Louis XIII., truly the son of his father, but having no atom of the “ Bearnois” 
disposition. Henry had no liking for Domitian’s pastime, though Louis loved to train 
hawks to fly at sparrows. Mean must the man be who can fly at no other game than that. 
Then of Louis XIY.,—he of whom so many lies have been mouthed,—whom Voltaire 
lauded so much, and sneered at quite as much. Then of the Fifteenth and the Sixteenth ; 
but the crash of the Revolution changed the scenes within the Tuileries. Other actors, 
—other deeds! 

When the antique consulate was recreated m the person of Napoleon in 1800, he made 
the patrician Tuileries his residence. Four years after, as Emperor, in those chambers, he 
made of his corporals marshals of the empire, of his generals he made kings. From thence, 
too, he could send forth his voice with a “ power and a sign,” and depose emperors and 
kings. In truth, this man’s life is one of the most wonderful chapters in the history of the 
world. In 1808 he added another gallery, connecting another wing of the building to the 
Louvre. 

In 1830, what a scene! There on the throne, surrounded by human platitudes, sat a 
man, Charles X., Charles the Simple. But who can stand against grape-shot, and mad¬ 
dened men, “ fusil a la main!” I take it. that he who will say that Louis the guillotined, 
Charles the exiled, and Louis Philippe the deposed—he who will say that either of these 
should not have turned tail, and fled from the oceans of ’whelming fire that the men of St. 
Antoine carried in their hands, to fling, to scatter abroad, like the naphtha of the Greeks, 
against which no gods could aid—he who talks of meeting them with dignity and so on, 
being king to the last, must have little idea of what it is to be made a target for a thousand 
musket-balls—must believe that kings are veritable basilisks or salamanders, and can live 
within and upon fire and flame. 

There are here charming places, indicated to you by their denomination, and each pos¬ 
sessing a secret history of its own, which I should be willing to hear and tell if it might be 
so. There is a pavilion of u Flora,” another of u Marsan.” There is the Salle de Mars , 
the Salle de Oonseil, the Salon Bleu (Napoleon's receiving-room), where, also, ordonnances 
leading to despotism or to deposition were signed—leading to blacker anarchy and Stygian 
gloom, or else to the lamp-cord, or the guillotine, and—liberty ! 

Shall I tell you of the sculptures you behold, hie et ubique ? —of the painted staircases 
—of the painted ceilings—of the frescoed walls—of the masterpieces of art which are pro¬ 
fuse on right hand and on left ? The heathen mythology has been drawn largely upon, 
it is true; and some few be-wigged monarchs are undergoing an apotheosis here and there 
which is superb in the painting, and for which reason you allow the execrable fable to pass 
current. Go to Paris, and behold details for yourselves. 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


99 


The thinnest partition—the merest lath and plaster of a roof—may oftentimes shelter 
grey hairs and brows that would fain be tranquil, being weary of the world. How many 
grey hearts have those noble walls, so grand and imposing in the moonshine as you look at 
them from the Carousel! Ambition has many a time tossed its feverish head on a couch 
there, and laid it quietly, or with more struggling, in the Berezina. What does all this 
dreamy matter amount to ? A little earth or water hides all—buries all—leaves all at 
peace. 

Destiny ! what a word—what a comprehensive word according to our usage of it, and 
how vast a latitude it has ! Men there, throned and clad in purple, have talked of destiny; 
and have gone the way of destiny into the roaring fire-cloud which wrapped them, and hid 
them from man’s gaze for ever. They have, with weak or wrathful hands, sought to leave 
their mark behind them, and they have succeeded. The more sorrow for that. The cry 
of the fair young girl left in the palace of lust and luxury, has appealed to the crowned 
rascal for mercy, and it was denied—denied how often ! One is afraid to count, even to 
think of counting. There is something so abhorrent in the idea. 

Another has grasped the adamant, and with a clasp that was like the strength of a 
prophet, who could from the sacred mountain have pulled down the lethal heavens upon 
their heads, left there huger—sprawling—terrible marks of Ms strength—and gone into 
Egyptian night. 

But there is an irresistible potency in the silent and solemn tread of Time. It passes 
over the hut where famine and hunger fight with life, and over the palace whence the shout 
of the wassailer issues. The chivalry, the festivities,—for France had both then,—that 
echoed from the Tuileries, where blended those separate elements of barbarous splendour— 
barbarous, yet mingling with pure civilization—are now tradition. 

Monarchs have sat there very proud, very great, and very powerful. They have seen 
their guards drawn up and set. They have heard devoted swords clang along the corri¬ 
dors, and stout men, of brave and single heart, have been seen posting themselves day and 
night at the doorways. 

The contrast has also been witnessed. 

The yell—the loud-sounding cry of anger—uttered by a trampled people, has filled the 
clear sun-bright heaven. Sharp rattle of musketry has been heard — u curses not loud but 
deep” have mingled with the rich perfume of the palace—kings have walked on volcanoes, 
and gone, none know whither; and, altogether, the Tuileries has had its light and shade, 
its debauch and also its repentance. None the worse if it comes late in the silent night. 

All this is from the subject, though I could not well avoid it. In truth, my dear reader, 
I am fond of drawing morals , in the ambiguous style of La Fontaine too ; but, as you say, 
I need not be too lugubrious. The fact is, they are so plain, so unavoidable. 

Which way now, the gardens or the square ? For here before you on the one hand is 
the Carousel, and on the other lie the enchanted gardens. 

Upwards of thirty years ago, the ground of the Carousel was lumbered over with sordid, 


100 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


mildewed buildings, herding vermin and men, both of a sort, working an honest com¬ 
munity no good. Now behold it perfect! Fifteen thousand men can go through their 
military exercises and manoeuvres between the Tuileries and the Louvre! 

There is a triumphal arch, commemorative of Napoleon’s victories, grand and graceful. 
The statuesque forms, illustrative of the various episodes pointed out, may be cavilled at 
by some, for my part I thought them consummate. 

But the gardens ! Oh, the gardens, upon my faith, will be difficult to describe. Ter¬ 
race over terrace, and glowing parterres surrounding cool and plashing fountains upon all 
sides. Statue upon statue, until the prodigal number of those silent forms of beauty almost 
bewilder. It is useless to give a catalogue. In the evening the enchantment of the scene 
is complete. 

I now turn my attention for a short while to the palace of the Luxembourg—which 
has experienced so many vicissitudes—which has had so many histories, coloured with so 
many threads—been known as the Luxembourg, even under the numerous appellations 
which must well-nigh have robbed it of identity—there it stands, quaint, picturesque, 
noble as of old. 

Many a year ago, when there was taste in even architectural quaintness, and beauty 
in the whim-whams men sometimes created, there stood on the ground a large house 
belonging to the Due d’Epinay Luxembourg. The new structure received that name, 
and retained it, although it has been called Palais di Directoire , du Consulate , du Senat, 
Conservateur , &c. &c. 

Marie de Medicis, a bold, imperious, and implacable woman, purchased it in 1612, and 
rebuilt it from the designs of de Brosse, and made it, what it is to this hour, one of the 
most superb structures in Paris. 

From its chambers have issued forth sounds of music and of revelry “ many a time and 
oft.” Thence came also—deadening the melody of the dulcimer, and jarring the sweet 
cymbals out of tune—wailings and lamentations. It was here that Rubens painted his 
famous pictures, elaborated out of incidents in the life of Mary de Medicis.* There are 
sculptures and frescoes here too, worthy a palace of the Ca3sars, and executed by the most 
famous artists that France could boast. 

The Luxembourg was bequeathed in succession, as it were, to the sons and daughters 
of the royal house of France, whether Bourbon, Orleans, or Valois. When the Revolution 
was in its first furious throes, this palace was made a temporary state-prison, and it received 
the significantly ghastly name, Notre Magazin a Guillotine. It was used by the Directory 
for its sittings, by Napoleon as the consular palace, and by Louis Philippe as a Palais de 
la Chamhre des Paix. 

Here Ney and Labedoybre were basely and scandalously, in spite of one of the terms 
expressed in the capitulation of Paris, doomed to death. Here Napoleon blackened 
his name and fame, by brutally ordering the murder of d’Enghien at Vicennes—a murder 

* Now removed to the Louvre. 


LRIS . PARIS 

















































































































































































































































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


101 


dire, darkling, in a frowning ditch, by a dubious light—an assassination which was not 
attempted to be disguised under any other name. Here, too, were the traitorous ministers 
of Charles X., Polignac, Peyronnet, and He Gucrnon-Ranville, tried for compassing evil 
against the people, and condemned as being guilty of treason. Their lives were, however, 
spared them. The Luxembourg has also been one of the head-quarters of the last 
revolution. 

The gardens of this fine palace are deservedly admired. They were planted and laid 
out—there is so much in this “ laying out”—when gardening was a mathematical science; 
and the consequence is, that there is a certain artificial grace about them which baffles the 
beholder, who loves that which he would call more natural, but where he would find it 
difficult to lay down exact data for criticism. I have always found a vast attraction in 
those solemn and formal walks, by those green dark fountains, wandering beneath Titanic 
terraces, where vast masses of masonry are broken into every variety of form and shape, 
and where silent Apollos, smiling Venuses, and Dianas equipped for the chase, start up 
at unexpected corners. The luxuriant growth of the trees has obviated what might else 
have been a real fault. 

From the front of the palace, by a continuous amplitude of streets, passing St. Sulpice 
on the left, and the Odeon on the right, the lounger walks towards the Seine. At the 
extremity, opposite the Pont des Arts, on the Quai Conti, is the Mint, or Hotel des Mon- 
nciies. It is remarkably handsome in its exterior, and ranks among the finest buildings in 
Paris. 

I soon found myself, however, in a place where I was infinitely better pleased. Perhaps 
within the Ecole Roy ale de Beaux Arts (a part of the u Institute,” Quai Conti), among many 
other splendid specimens of art (many of them imitations of the antique, which one would 
fancy was the rage at times), is a copy of Michael Angelo’s “ Last Judgment,” placed there 
by M. Thiers. 

One is certainly not prepared for the stupendous splendour of this particular chamber, 
where the frowning majesty of the great Michael’s presence seems to crush one down to the 
earth. The spectator is overawed with the ponderosity of the designs around him. 

The building is light and beautiful, and adaptable every way. Its fabric is elegant, its 
fountain is charming, its archway always catching the eye, and everything wears a win¬ 
ning, a most smiling aspect. 

Until you go and stand before this sublime—this terrible picture, all the finely-finished 
things which the devoted Sir Joshua Reynolds has said of this surpassing man, hardly 
give one an idea of his stupendous yet awful beauty. From the rhapsodies of the enthusi¬ 
astic and irascible Fuzeli, we have some fine and stirring words that cleave out a thought 
of him vast as Homer, when he describes the fight upon the banks of Scamander, or the 
implacable anger of Achilles. 

The sombre, grand -work gives an indescribable effect to the figure of the Judge of the 
world descending in ineffable glory, while beside him, august, pure, and solemnly beauti- 

2 C 


102 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


ful, is the blessed Virgin. How those grand countenances, calm and vast, or frowning and 
distorted, fill one with a multiplicity of ideas, almost beyond the grasp of the human mind! 
The gazer staggers under a sense of his own littleness. He half veils his eyes, and a deep 
horror seizes him as the intertangled groups below, with Titanic limbs, struggling and 
writhing amid seething fires, put one in a rack of wordless agony. The great—the unut¬ 
terable woe—the huge pain, as if fire was impermeated in every fibre of the livid and 
quivering flesh, are almost too much for contemplation. 

But it is the sublime—the true sublime, after all! 

Then look at the Moses. There is something supernaturally grand, frightfully sublime, 
even about that mighty mass of stone, that seems, in its agitated and wrathful attitude, to 
breathe out such denunciations against his rebellious followers, as would sweep them from 
the face of the earth. Subdued tempests must have slumbered within that wondrous and 
godlike conception. 

To be left alone for a few moments gazing upon those forms—those sculptures—is there 
not something appalling about the idea? Fancy yourself after the lightness, the attractive 
beauty of the streets, the galleries, the gardens, where you have seen so many fair and 
joyous things, and then experience the revulsion which falls upon you at the sight of these 
startling actualities. 

The silence of the hall—the grim, grand Moses—the rigid yet writhing limbs, with 
every muscle in full tension, yet bound in its stony limits—the life, without a life—the eyes 
that gleam and flash, and follow you—the inarticulate war of pain and agony that rises 
from those u damned souls” in the lurid fire—the other frightful things half revealed—and 
setting the imagination actively to work,—in truth, he must be a man ol strong and resolute 
nerve, who can sit alone there and give his imagination full play. 

What sights—what visions Angelo must have seen in the depth of his soul, when, in 
the apocalypse of a new creation, the twin characteristics of his genius stalked past him! 
Terror—grandeur! both imperishable, both eternal, and both inseparable ! 

It was like a strife of the heroes of the Iliad, or a glimpse of the great pre-Adamites, or 
tire Titan bound on Caucasus, surrounded by the eternal boundless space—the sea below, the 
sky above, and still beyond those, depth and height, beyond those still—space where the 
gyrating orbs could rush and whirl, and progress on in their immutable, unalterable motion. 

Bushing away from the spot, and my subject at the same time, like a demented man, I 
mean to make short wrnrk of the remaining u lions” of Paris, as I am anxious to take a trip 
to the environs of the city, to the which Dewbank has been trying to excite me several 
times. 

I am now, however, before the Hotel de Ville. 

This splendid building awakens as many stormy reminiscences as any place I have 
seen. It reminds me of civic festivities—of good jovial citizenship, pledging to one and 
another with an unction and good humour peculiar to the extensive and robust burghers 
alone. Next there is a political agitation—then a sensation—then the mayor is appealed to 





THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


103 


—tlie people assemble—a sliot is fired—the mass roars and yells defiance—the streets are 
torn up—carriages are overthrown—the barricades are erected, and, pardicu! there is a 
revolution ! 

In fact, the way in which these things are impromptued—the combined ferocity and 
frankness—the bonhommie and the merciless rage with which they wreak their pent-up 
wrath in one sudden explosion, is just like the idiom of their own language—unique. One 
never looks upon the Hotel de Ville without, as a matter of course, by a natural transition, 
referring mentally to one of those bouleversevients so popular in Paris. 

The Hotel de Ville, or Town Hall of Paris, is situated in the Place la Grlve , a space of 
ground that has so many ghastly and sorrowful souvenirs to make it remembered. Every¬ 
thing that is horrible and appalling in outraged and outraging human nature belongs to this 
place ; and the lamentations for the lost, the wailing for the dead, the tears that the anguish 
of parting have caused to flow, are hardly yet forgotten—are not altogether wiped away. 
This place w r as the Newgate—the Idorsemonger-lane of Paris—where criminals were 
executed, and where, in the maddest frenzy of the revolution, the most hideous passions 
of human nature w r ere let loose—w T here men grew drunken with blood, and crowd after 
crowd, bloody, foaming, and intoxicated, bore fresh victims to the slaughter—revived again 
the trickling stream (sanguine of hue, and clotted as it was—that was the feeling), while 
dripping heads, with closed eyes and purple lips, borne aloft on pikes in the fierce glare of 
the torchlight, gave a touch of the horrible to a scene that seemed to be taken from Pande¬ 
monium, and acted upon earth for a space of time. 

The building of the Hotel de Ville had been commenced in the Gothic style, as I find, 
but progressed so slowly that the style teas out of fashion ; and consequently, previous to 
the time of Henry IV., a variety of alterations were made. In 1608 it was finally 
completed. 

The erection—the whole facade of the building—is full of an imposing harmony. The 
relation of parts to the whole faultless, and the sculptural embellishments of the most 
exquisite workmanship; and the names of several renowned artists are connected with the 
decorations and sculptures which contribute to render it so perfect. 

During the wars of the Fronde, the Town Hall became the theatre of mental and actual 
struggles. Conde, who had collected his partisans in the square, and who opposed Louis 
through his rival Mazarin, bearded the provost, the Duke d’Orleans, and the court party. 
The mob in the square attacked the Hotel, placed faggots at the doors, and fired them, and 
then discharged round after round at the windows. Those within were obliged to capitulate, 
and a paper was thrown out of the windows with the word “ Union” written on it. This 
came too late, and many of name and position were sacrificed before the riot was ended. 

Many of the great scenes of the revolution have been acted here. Some remarkable 
for nobleness of soul—coolness in danger—whereby one moment’s self-possession has 
stopped the raging fury of a people, changed momentarily into tigers. Some as remark¬ 
able, again, for everything that violates the laws both of the creature and the Creator! 


104 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


Here, too, when the dust of the Bastile, overthrown in broken masses, had scarcely sub¬ 
sided, Louis XVI. came to Paris at the request of the Assembly. When Bailly had given 
him the keys—when Lally Tolendal had welcomed him with one of his noble but sophis¬ 
tical speeches,—the king, putting on the Phrygian cap—emblem of the very reddest 
republicanism—advanced to the window, and gazed down upon that vast ocean of 
upturned faces which were there to receive him. 

If there are moments in life when we have in reality such things as presentiments, could 
not the doomed king have seen in those eyes—fierce, or glittering, or calm,—in those 
brows, frowning and corrugated, or smooth and unruffled—the wrath that had been kindled, 
and that would soon blaze out destructively ? 

They yet show the curious the chamber where Robespierre held his councils—kept his 
awful books, and his list of names, which diminished day by day, until the knife of the 
guillotine grew heavy, clogged, and thick with its ceaseless work. He had attempted to 
kill himself; and his jaw and face were smashed and bleeding, as he was dragged to the 
Hotel de Ville, and thence to the guillotine. 

Some of the sharpest fighting in the revolution of 1830 took place here, and in the 
adjoining streets, and suspension bridge which leads from la Greve to the other shore. The 
latter is now named Pont d’Arcole, commemorating the heroism of a young man, who, with 
the tricolour in his hand, made a path for the people to follow, but was shot through the 
heart in the attempt. 

What elements have we in the contemplation of these strifes, either in their chronologi¬ 
cal detail, or in the suggestions which the places, where the strifes occurred, arouse! 
What heroism, what corn-age!—but also, what woe, what sorrow—lie in the merciless 
disposition that actuates men at the moment! After all, if “ everything be lost save 
honour,” there is yet sufficient remaining to retrieve every disadvantage already suffered. 

In wandering round the square, gradually losing the sound and the bustle of life, how 
strangely does the tide of fancy flow in currents! some opposing, some blending, but all 
creating vivid pictures of the past, where, above all, the sentiment that is calculated to 
strike one with deep and irrepressible terror is most prominent. 

My thoughts were sombre enough as I walked away, seeing in my mind’s eye the guil¬ 
lotine again a fixture in the square ; and it required all my powers of concentration to turn 
to the revels and civic festivities, of which those halls had so often been the scene. I 
beheld lights flashing from a thousand lamps, but they changed into the flames of a confla¬ 
gration. I heard the music of a thousand instruments, which changed at last into the wild 
and stirring blast of martial music. Musketry rattled—cannon boomed—shells exploded. 
“ Good heavens ! ” I exclaimed, as I roused myself up by nearly breaking my nose against 
a lamp-post, “ what shall I be thinking of next?” 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


105 


Balplj potter’s Sbtonu 

I interrupt myself for the present, lest I should exhaust the reader’s patience, before 
my subject begins to fail me, by begging him to accompany me back, if his imagination 
will carry him, to that portion relating to Ralph Potter, which was broken off necessarily 
for awhile at page 41 of this my discursive chronicle. 

We had dined late on a lovely rosy afternoon, when the dust and heat had made 
shadow and rest, light food, and cool sparkling wine, a delicious refuge; and we had spent 
an hour together, all three of us, in a lofty and pleasantly-lighted chamber overlooking the 
river (we had dined, be it known, at a fashionable restaurant off the Quai d’Orsay), and 
the Tuileries , with the spacious squares, buildings, and shaded gardens on either hand, 
formed a picture so perfect, so beautiful, so stately and enchanting, that the sensuous 
faculties were sated with the charming prospect. 

There lay on the table light wines, and the materials for heavier potations, if, as the 
night set in, Ewart (who generally brewed first) should be inclined to leave the hock for 
the Monongahela, or rather a very excellent substitute for it. Ewart Dewbank, by the 
way, would insist that it was I who was first in the field when there was a small excess to 
be committed; but of that anon, and the proof shall be in the first broaching of the bottle. 
Meantime we sipped our wine; and as the desert was cleared away, I drew out my cigar- 
case, and laid it down. We were in an estaminet where smoking was permitted—at least 
in some of the rooms. 

“ Potter, my boy, what makes you look so dull?” asked Ewart, leaning his arms on 
the table. 

Ralph, who was certainly more than usually taciturn, started, and, with a melancholy 
smile, said, that “he was not aware of anything in particular.” 

“ Hit with a pair of darts, from some Parthian orbs glowing in the forehead of a 
brunette. Eh, Ralph?” I asked in a playful manner. 

“ No,” he replied gently; “I suppose I am merely in one of those moods that the rave 
old Burton speaks of—therefore let us change the conversation—a change of subject will 
be better than dwelling upon it.” 

“ Agreed,” said Dewbank readily, and we were soon in full enjoyment of the causerie 
of Paris, by which means we whiled away an hour very pleasantly. 

At the end of that time, Ralph intimated that he would go to the Frangais, and see 
M. Chollet and Madame Charton in some of their most attractive parts. The reader need 
scarcely be reminded that they were then celebraties of the Opera Comique. 

After a slight discussion, during which we declined to accompany him, as we had 
(Ewart and myself) some instinctive idea of remaining alone together, and a vague notion 
of recurring to Ralph’s “ Autobiography,” some sheets of which my friend had seen me pass 
surreptitiously into my ample pocket. Potter took a fiacre , and drove off, leaving us 
together. 


106 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


Dewbank smiled after liis departure, hitched his chair closer to the table, drew another 
whereon to rest his legs, and taking up a plethoric cigar, ignited it, and grasping the 
whisky, mixed some cold grog, and appeared at ease. 

“ Well,” said he. 

u Well,” I composedly retorted, u what is it that is ( well?’” 

11 Our present fixins, I guess,” he replied. 11 1 feel as straight up and down as old 
Deacon Ebenezer Ramsbottom’s cob, 1 Dumplin’,’ turned out to grass, after chokin’ himself 
on dry hay. Take out them hieroglyphics of Ralph Potter’s. I’ve no cotton pods in my 
ears. You’re in fine voice, you are. Read on, and let us be edified.” 

After some demur, which caused him no little irritation, I finished my cigar, replenished 
my glass, made myself comfortable; and while the silent and delicious air came breathing 
in at the windows—the eye, when lifted up, being full of the beauty that surrounded all, 
taking out the copious MSS., I began to read. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY, Continued fkoji Page 41. 

u I did not stir from the college for two or three weeks after the event I have last 
recorded, and I heard no news from without. I felt insuperable objections to make any 
inquiries, and I passed the time in a state of the most irritable impatience, though I did 
not allow any outward expression of my tumultuous feelings to be seen ; but the struggle to 
hide the secret that was become the ruling passion of life was certainly an herculean task. 

u I attended to my studies with a sort of sullen determination, that gave my teachers 
an idea of me which was as contradictory as remarkable. They evidently set me down 
as an unsocial and morose individual, though I had no indication of such a mood in my 
physiognomy. My very progress in mathematics and the classics destroyed the mean idea 
they might have formed of my abilities. They did not think that the change in my 
temper was one of immediate creation, as they knew nothing of the events which had taken 
place, and which impinged a highly susceptible nature. 

u On Aline I dwelt unceasingly. There was a mysterious relation between herself and 
De Souche I vainly sought to account for, and the more I tried to explain it satisfactorily, 
the more did the mystery increase, and the difficulties become so many gigantic obstacles. 

u What added the more to my embarrassment—if I may so call a position in which my 
perplexity was at its height—was that of being without a human being near me on whom 
I could bestow my c tediousness; ’ as Dogberry hath it, I was surging upon an unquiet 
sea, and knew no rest. 

u Her last words—her parting glance—haunted me like the remembrance of a deed of 
which I was never to lose sight more. Her 1 adieu !’ rang in my ears—her praise was like 
music—her look was for ever drawing me after the phantom which wore her form—I fol¬ 
lowed it in my sleep—among the garden slopes—beside the murmuring streams—it sat 
beside me in the bowers where I rested—the white arms clasped me, and the eyes were 
soft and shining like stars in the silent eve—her lips murmured love—and then came the 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


107 


swarth (lemon-face between us with a hiss of hate—it parted us ; and the old scorn—the 
withering contempt, which could come in smiles to her lips, marred every fine lineament, 
and made her an abhorrent thins. 

u The days passed drearily, the nights feverishly, and my cheeks were growing paler, 
which was attributable to study, for I omitted no portion of my task. 

u At last, one afternoon, which was as sullen as my own humour, I could endure this 
no longer, and sallied forth to call upon Mr. Munro, as well as to—why should I conceal 
it ?—to satisfy the yearnings of my heart. 

“ Yet, as I walked along, I could not avoid the idea that there was something Quixot- 
ish and absurd in this conduct. What was the meaning of my farewell—my bidding her 
adieu—my proposed reclusion—if I was to break out thus, and, like a petulant schoolboy, 
run back to the apron-strings, I should be man enough to cease mourning for ? 

“1 marvelled that I had heard nothing of De Souclie. Was he recovered? Was he 
gone ? Or, had he exerted his infernal skill in fascination, and was yet remaining there, 
tolerated by Mr. Munro, and thrust upon the society of Aline, who could not escape ? 
However, I trusted rather to the maternal care of Mrs. Munro, wdiose daughters demanded 
the exercise of a certain decision and discretion, by which his privileges of visiting would 
be considerably curtailed. 1 

“ I was tempted to return, when it struck me that the singularity of Munro’s silence 
might arise from the fact of De Souche’s having caused Aline’s absence by persuasion, or 
by violence, and the thought sent a fire into my heart. 

“1 hesitated no longer. I made no farther parley, but set on at a smart pace, until I 
arrived at the house. The door happened to be open, and the servants knew me. There 
was every appearance of company being there, and entering into a vast dining-room, open¬ 
ing into the large garden, I beheld De Souche disappearing at the door. 

“ I entered the chamber at the very moment that I saw her watching his departure. 

“It was always remarkable, that in these times, when she appeared to be always militating 
against the dearest feelings of my soul—when my hatred and my jealousy for him, as well 
as my contempt for her, were roused to insanity—that she should seem ever loveliest, just 
when fading dreamily from my longing grasp. 

“ She was bending forward in an attitude of almost intense eagerness—her fine eyes 
bent on the window, and the long hair, half loosed, flooding her ivory neck. The dress 
she wore set off the graces of her form, and the rose, just bursting into a flower, fixed on 
her breast, was a relief to the plain, ladylike, but elegant material of which it was formed. 

“ I stood at the door the moment I entered, surprised into an admiring but bitter silence. 
I knew she was watching his retiring step, but the expression which I saw on her face 
utterly baffled me. It was a sad and bitter wonder, mingled with something that was 
eager and defiant. Prepared as I had been to expect by a contingency that De Souclid 
might be there—to see him, actually roused my anger, and my unmitigated surprise. 

“ Why had he dared to reappear? Why had Mrs. Munro permitted the visits of a man 


108 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


I had proclaimed, and struck as a scoundrel; and by consequence—as my assertion had not 
been disproved—unfit for the company of men who deemed that ‘honour’ was not a mere 
word; thus falsifying the logic by which Falstaff sheltered his poltroonery? 

u And after all, what was this to me ? Why should I feel annoyed at it ? She had 
exhibited so much of equivocal feeling towards me, mingled with what I might almost 
imagine was apathy, that I deemed it best to swallow the rising hysteria in my throat, 
and let things go on as they may. She knew him as well as I, and probably did not dread 
him so much. 

“ I was satisfied, and retired. As I closed the door, however, the sound made her start; 
and I heard her turn sharply round and demand, 1 Who’s there?’ 

u I made no reply. Company was coming down the broad staircase, and I was col¬ 
lected enough to know that in the confusion, and the number, I had no need to fear any 
interruption ■whatever. I drew back a moment, in order to allow some ladies to pass in the 
corridor; and as there was a crowd of gentlemen before me in the hall, I merely waited 
until I could make my exit without pushing among them, or giving umbrage to whomsoever 
might chance to take it, if I chose to elbow my way out. 

u The ladies retired into the drawing-room, some to music, some to the ball-room, where 
an impromptu dance was got up; and the gentlemen separated according to their desires 
and engagements, so that the place was left clear. 

“ It was with a growing irritation that I had been waiting for all this calm arrangement 
to take place ; I, whose heart was, at the hour, so wild and stormy, and so little in unison 
with the desires which moved those around me. I was preparing to depart, wdien a door 
on the opposite side of the passage opened, and I beheld Aline once more, with a face so 
white and ghastly that it made me start. 

Mr. Potter,’ she said. It was in the magical tone with which I had been before 
bewitched. 

“ It stirred me did that tone to the last fibre of my being. A matchless woman—men¬ 
tally—bodily—for whom I would have died to hear her utter my name!—Let any one 
hear his own name so pronounced, and if lie be man, it will shake him too. 

“ I said not a word, for, in fact, I might have been as white as she was, but I will swear 
that I was greatly agitated. 

u £ I—I—wish to—to speak to you one moment.’ 

11 1 advanced towards her at once, and she hurridly added, 1 In here—here, for a few 
moments—we shall not be interrupted.’ I entered the chamber, and the door was shut. 

“ I know not what sentiment made these superb lips work. Nor do I know what light 
scorn, or deep pathos, was emitted from her fulgid eyes. I know she looked marvellously 
lovely; but, as before, the wicked cold sneer was on her face, and, determined as I was, I 
could neither say that it lay in the eye, on the brow, or on the lip. 

“ As she had not spoken, I thought proper to break the silence. 

“‘You called me, Mademoiselle Gabrielle ?’ 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


109 


u She cast upon me a glance like lightning, and her face blushed crimson. It was 
indignant, and something like surprise was in it. I knew I was lost if I quailed; and 
whatever I felt—outwardly I was impassive. 

u 1 For one so young,’ she said, sternly, and in the tone of a soliloquy more than aught 
else — 1 for one so young, one would wonder at the collectedness you display, and have 
displayed. True, sir, I called you,’ she added, more directly, 1 and thinking that you 
might have wished to see Mr. Munro, I can inform you that he has been from home for 
several days.’ 

u I stared. 1 Is Mrs. Munro with him ?’ I asked. 

u 1 Mrs. Munro and her daughters are with him also,’ returned Aline, with what I would 
term one of her white smiles. 

u I was perfectly embarrassed. 

111 1 am sorry—I am glad’—I began. 

111 Can I not perform the rites of hospitality for a friend ?’ she asked. 1 Mr. Munro has 
left me here as mistress of the house for the present. This is a party he had invited some 
time back, and-’ 

II i And who presides in his place ?’ I asked, abruptly. 

u 1 Have you the right to ash that question, sir?’ demanded Aline, with a violence of 
tone that perfectly astonished me. 

III You have not the right to answer, Mademoiselle, and I did not ask it as a right. 
Permit me to apologise for intruding;’ and, with a deep bitterness in my soul, with the 
tears almost starting into my eyes—which tears, however, I gulped down—1 made a low 
bow and turned to the door. 

u I heard a quick sharp breathing uttered behind me, and I paid no attention to it. I 
knew that to waste more words and thoughts was to waste my heart fruitlessly—I grew 
stern as iron at the instant. 

u Would I had remained so! 

u 1 Mr. Potter!—Ralph ! will you leave me thus ? so lonely! so helpless! ’ The tone in 
which Aline, to my perfect astonishment, spoke these words, wore choked in their utterance, 
and expressed a feeling so hurt with unkindness, that my ‘ milky’ nature gave way, and I 
turned instantly. 

u ‘ Why lonely ? why helpless ?’ I asked ; 1 but, above all, why lonely, since I have seen 
him whom I interdicted from being in this house with you ?’—and I spoke with a triumphant 
ferocity —‘ why, and he near you, are you alone ?’ 

u My question may have been rude, unjustifiable—what you please; it was, perhaps, 
ruder in tone, but knowing the man to be from established rumour proven what he was, I 
believe it was, after all, a right question. Aline did not think so, however, and she gave 
me to understand as much, for she replied:— 

111 He has a right to be here, if he be invited.’ 

a I bowed again. It seemed as if we were never to understand each other I did the 

2 E 



110 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


best I could to make myself comprehended. I replied, 1 Yes, Mademoiselle, certainly, if 
he be invited—by all means. I am not invited; I apologise once more, and take my leave.’ 

“ She clasped her hands together in an energy of anguish, and cried, ‘ My God ! if they 
should meet! ’ 

“ c We will not meet, if I can avoid it,’ I said. 

u 1 Thanks !’ she eagerly responded, seizing my hand, and wringing it; < thanks ! you 
know not how you relieve me—you know not how freely I breathe again. I feared your 
hasty temper,’ she added ;—and I gave a start of indignant surprise. 

111 My hasty temper !’ I exclaimed. 

111 Yes, it is flashing out of your eyes now; or, no,’ continued she, with one of those 
gleams of mockery which always made me more sad and more sorrowful. 

This time I was also enraged. I had at one time heard her insulted, and I had 
resented it: I beheld her in danger of persecution, and I had protected her. True, at the 
same time, I protected myself; but to submit to this transition of temperament, however it 
might suit her, was by no means agreeable to myself. 

“ 1 It seems,’ said I at last, 1 that our meetings are not doomed to meet with any very 
agreeable results. Let us meet no more?’ 

u 1 If you desire it,’ she replied. 

u 1 1 desire nothing,’ I returned sadly, 1 but that you should not be subjected to any 
further annoyance from me. I firmly believed that I was justified in the line of conduct I 
adopted. You give me every reason to think otherwise.’ 

u 1 Do you think that I am destitute of gratitude, Mr. Potter?’ she asked. Her large 
lustrous eyes, filled with a benign light, were bent in a sort of anxious wonderment upon 
my face. 

a 1 It would seem that by answering such a question at all,’ I remarked coldly, ( as if I 
were desirous of being thanked for something or other that I had done. You perversely 
persist in making reference to a past event, which is not of the slightest consequence-’ 

u 1 How—none ?—of— no —consequence ?’ she asked. 

u Why, in torturing m|pwith questions like these, why did she seem so lovely—so fasci¬ 
nating—so childlike—so innocent—as though she would have placed herself upon my 
bosom in confidence and love, and remained there, safe from all ill—all harm—all chance 
of harm even, for ever ! 

a But I knew too, that, with a single thought, some haughty and vicious sentiment 
would sweep every trace of this from her face, and scorn and mockery usurp the place 
where soft and womanly feeling were now gently beaming with an intensity almost 
incredible. 

u 1 1 repeat it,’ I said. 1 It does not appear to be of the slightest consequence. I find 
myself where I have no right to be-’ 

u i I do not say so, Mr. Potter,’ interrupted she gravely, 1 1 have no right to say so, even 
if I thought so. On the contrary, I must be as deficient in gratitude as in sense, if I were 




THE HOTEL DP, VJLLP'. 










































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


Ill 


to permit you to remain longer under such a delusion. I was glad to behold you here— 
ver J glad, she added, with an emotion in her tone that made my whole frame thrill and 
tingle with a delighted sense of hope and expectation that is utterly undescribable. 

Mademoiselle Gabrielle,’ I began, in a half-trembling tone, ( I know not what to say, 
or how to reply to you, because I do not think you can appreciate the vast joy, the bound¬ 
less pleasure, it was to have done you the smallest service. If you know what devotion 
is, that adores and idolizes in presence and in absence, you will then know how I regard 
you-•’ 

u 1 M hat would you say'?’ she asked, with a dark, serious, sombre look, inexpressibly 
gloomy. 

II c I do not believe I ought to say it, Aline, because I dread you, not for myself alone, 
as much as I dread the revulsion of those feelings which, under scorn and mockery, would 
shrink in agony at such outrage, and endure, under a supercilious glance, a torture beyond 
that of the rack.’ 

u 1 1 would not pain any one of your feelings,’ she said, in a voice so earnest and deter¬ 
mined, that I felt sure she spoke truly— 1 1 would not pain one feeling—add one pang of 
agony to your grief—for the saving of this miserable existence from the ghastliest death 
that can be imagined.’ 

u I drew back from the intense and fervid sentence—from the kindling eyes, and the 
fiery gesture; but when she spoke of her 1 miserable existence,’ I was more than half 
frightened at her manner. 

“ 1 You miserable! you unhappy! ’ I exclaimed. 

III Alas, yes! thrice, and a thousand times, yes,’ she returned violently; 1 but you, 
proceed with what you were saying; if we meet no more, let me at least hear all you would 
say.’ 

u c That man! ’ I exclaimed, wrathfully clenching my hand, and shaking it after the 
absent De Souche, : whom you know to be an utter wretch, is here in the house where he 
insulted you—undisguised, as he must be, to Mr. Munro, he is tolerated and welcomed.’ 

u 1 Mr. Munro knows nothing of him,’ I heard a low voice say; and I saw that Aline 
had hidden her face in her hands, and spoke with the greatcswlifficulty. 

- 11 ‘It is a mystery which I cannot solve,’ I said; ‘but you have asked me to proceed. 

I will. The world is yet strange to me; but it has not w T orn an aspect that repels and 
disgusts. It has had too much of its own solemn loveliness to be neglected. It has been 
no bax-ren book, no tame picture, no lifeless and inert mass, in which I lived and moved 
like one whose sensations were becoming extinguished one by one. The first thing that 
broke the calm waters of my pleasant life was your form. It was your face, Aline, that 
came and haunted me in my sleep, and ever after was the phantom of my thoughts, in 
which, stormy or calm, they had life and motion, and were full of promptings, far sublimer 
than any fancy had been ever before with me. I saw other beauties in my books, and the 
sloping meads in the moonlight echoed to the music of a voice that had cast its magic upon 



112 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


my heart and spirit; it told me that the spell would last for ever } and I did not seek to 
break that spell. Aline, I love you! ’ 

u The words were spoken—the sentiment revealed—the confession made which could 
never be recalled. Let what would happen after, I was to stand from that moment in a 
relation to her far different to our former one. She had ceased to be the accidental agent 
that had crossed my path for joy or sorrow, but was, instead, the despotic arbitress of my 
fate;—no unreal personage—no mere ideality, but, on the contrary, an actuality, tangible 
and bodily, who had the entire happiness or misery of a man in her own hands. 

u There is no doubt also, but that, at the moment when great emotions are pouring over 
the lips, the tone becomes grand and musical, that the voice is imposing and eloquent, and 
that the cadence of the orator, the fire, the grace, and strength of language, is actually 
as nothing in comparison. I was not perfectly aware of it at the time probably, though I 
certainly did feel an irresistible impulse and eloquence moving me. 

111 1 love you, Aline,’ I continued; 1 think you, then, that I could endure to behold a 
man like De SoucIkj near you—having power and authority in the house where you dwell 
—speaking of you as I heard him speak—and not feel my blood become fire, and my limbs 
iron?’ 

u She uttered a low moan, and then removed her hands from her face. I started back 
from its horrible paleness—from the despairing eyes—from the almost ghastly misery 
written on her cheeks. 

u ‘ In the name of God, Aline!’ I cried, ‘what is the matter?’ 

a 1 1 did not know, until this moment,’ she murmured, with lips quite livid, ‘ that my 
cup of bitterness could contain one drug more bitter than any I have as yet tasted. My 
God! My God! ’ and she wrung her hands together in great agony. 

u 1 It is then as I expected, Aline,’ I said at last, in low bitter tones; ‘ as I feared, as I 
dreaded—you love me not. You, however, pressed me to speak. I have spoken; and the 
consequence is, that an additional bitterness is added to what need not have been exag¬ 
gerated. We shall part then, and never meet more.’ 

“‘We must part,’ she said, pale and ghastly as though she were some white phantom 
that had to weep tears of bfiff>d as the expiation of a great sin. 1 Yes, we must part, and 
let us both pray that we may never meet. It will spare us much agony—much needless 
pain. Do not think,’ she added, 1 that I have heard your words without^an emotion.’ 

u 1 Can you then, indeed, not love me, Aline ?’ I asked, with an imploring desperation, 
prompted by the great sympathy she evidently exhibited. 

“ ‘ It is not a question I dare reply to,’ she answered, still more pale and scared. 1 Your 
noble nature would hallow such a passion, and you honour any woman, whomsoever she 
may be, who can accept and reciprocate it. I dare not—I cannot—1 must not. My fate 
is marked out too sternly. Our paths diverge; at this moment we are arriving at the spot 
where we part company for ever!’ 

u 1 You alarm me—you astound me,’ I said. ‘ Is it possible that my suspicions point 





T.D Ssott.pzru: 



JOHN 


'AT, LIS * COMP Aire LO-N DON * NEW 'S'ORK 

























TIIE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


113 


true—do I Lelieve rightly ? Can it actually be that this man, of whom I have so vast a 
dread, is the arbiter of your fate ?’ 

111 It is true,’ she said softly, and with a shudder. 

111 That De Souche is—is—’ 

u 1 That De Souclid is my master, and that I am his slave!’ and with a heart-breaking 
moan she hid her face in her hands and sobbed. The proud—the indomitable spirit was 
utterly crushed. The withering sarcasm—the lofty scorn—the impassive and unbending 
will was broken. Aline was conquered, and her tremendous grief awed and overwhelmed 
me. 

“ What could I do? what say? I endeavoured to comfort her. I .spoke soothingly to 
her. My own sorrow was great enough; my wrath silent, strong, and deep. I had now a 
cause for hating De Souche as mortally as it w r as possible for a man to hate. What was 
his power over Aline?—his influence?—his right? To what extent did his claim go?— 
a master and a slave! I could not comprehend this, and if there were no guilt- 

11 It was this thought which stung me to the quick—it was this accursed fancy that 
made my blood boil, and my heart heave, and my hands to clench fiercely together. 

II That this magnificent woman—this creature so matchless, so lofty in mind, in 
outward form so rare and perfect—that she should be the guilty paramour of a man like 
De Souche, w T as almost maddening! 

u During this time the guests were amusing themselves overhead, as we could hear by 
the sound of the dancers’ feet, by the distant cadences of hushed music stealing through the 
crowded room, by the loud and mirthful laughter that came pealing from all sides—all of 
which jarred more frightfully upon my nerves. 

u What was I to do ? I could not remain there to meet the Creole—for we should, in 
all probability, have sprung at each other's throats like tigers—and I could not tear myself 
aw r ay from her. She, however, resolved the difficulty. 

“ 1 Adieu! adieu! ’ she suddenly said, seizing my hand, and carrying it to her lips; 

1 think tenderly of me, as of a sister—dead and buried. Mourn for me if you will, as they 
mourn for the dead; but for your own sake, and for mine, let us meet no more—never 
more on earth.’ 

a The next moment she had pressed her lips to my forehead, and was vanished. I left 
the house blinded and stupified, and how I got back to the college I do not know. 

II I saw no more of Aline. I heard no more of her. The intense thirst ot my heart 
—the great and unappeased yearning of my soul, was thus doomed to feed upon itself in 
solitude and in silence. With an indifference on which every strange construction was put, 
I went on day by day, and my studies became to me a mere mechanical routine, through 
which I laboriously toiled, but without receiving pleasure or profit in any shape or way. 

“ Weeks had elapsed, and I never saw anything of the Munros; and the period was 
drawing near when I was to return home for a short time, an event to tv Inch I looked 
forward without any other feeling than that of apathy. There was no joy in the prospect of 

2 F 



114 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


meeting with those who loved me, for my bereavement from Aline had absorbed every 
thought and feeling, and made me utterly selfish. 

u This was not a fit state of mind or body in which to meet my friends, and I resolved 
not to go home this time. An opportunity was afforded me of going to New Orleans for a 
few weeks; I eagerly embraced it, and set forth. 

a I wrote word home to the effect that I should avail myself of the offer that had been 
made me, to extend my small knowledge of the world. No sentence, with regard to the 
ill-regulated state of my mind at the time, was allowed to escape me. My letter was more 
joyous than might have been imagined, and I had not failed in the strife that took place 
for college prizes, so that I had the satisfaction of being able to render a good account of 
myself, without in any way violating the truth, a thing I had a most unconquerable aversion 
to do. 

u The journey was by sea, and as we hugged the coast I was enabled to observe closely 
the grand and stupendous scenery, characteristic of the western coast, from the Hudson to the 
Gulf of Mexico. Vast primeval forests skirted the base of the huge and shining Alleghanies. 
whose white tops shone in the splendid moonlight. Cities and towns, rivers and creeks, 
bold bluffs and stormy headlands, all by turns formed portions of a picture, which, for 
scenic effect, could not be surpassed by any portion of the Continent. Calm succeeded to 
tempest, and though we were not without risks and dangerous vicissitudes, yet the 
pleasant motion of the sea, when the wind had blown itself out, as seamen phrase it, brought 
about a reaction agreeable enough to make us forget every care. 

u We arrived at the mouth of the Mississippi in due course, and entered into the noble 
harbour. I lodged at the house of a friend, who had the tact and taste to permit me to 
enjoy myself as I pleased, and without restriction, so that, freed from surveillance , I wandered 
about day after day. 

“ The gaieties and dissipations of New Orleans are varied enough to distract any ennui, 
and to relieve the mind, provided a man would plunge into them. But I had an innate 
disgust for the profligate life that so many led, and the gambling saloon, the theatre, the 
tavern, beheld nothing whatever of me. I preferred rather to make long trips up and down 
the mighty river, to ramble mile upon mile into the great solitudes stretching to right and 
left, and thus giving myself up to a total intercommunion with nature, I felt a placid and 
solemn peace that I could not else have experienced. 

11 But Aline was always before me. I knew the strength of the sentiment which filled 
my bosom too well, to expect that time or absence could weaken it; and, indeed, the con¬ 
trary effect was produced. I loved her more and more, and I loved hopelessly. 

u One day, in one of my inland rambles through a wild wooded country, across savannahs, 
and by the banks of a winding river, I had pursued my journey so far, that the noon was 
likely to pass into the evening before I thought of returning. I beheld at some distance 
the tracery of a large noble building, which indicated, to my great satisfaction, that I was 
near to an inhabited dwelling. I was in the midst of a grove of firs, and cautious to avoid 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROrE. 


115 


the serpents that might be in the waving grass, sought to break way from the intertangled 
wood. 

u I had almost broken through the bushes into an enchantingly beautiful spot, when an 
object met my gaze which held me with beating heart, panting with suspense, and the 
tangled creepers with their blossoming leaves proved a fringe sufficiently thick to prevent 
my being seen. 

“ To the right, and stretching in crystal clearness away till it grew brown and shadowy 
beneath the mangroves, tall acacias, and crowding, towering palm-trees, which cast a 
blackness below, was spread out a limpid tank of water. 

u Close to where I stood, the half-circular wall, covered with mossy herbage, prevented 
its escape, and on the other side it mingled with sand and broken shells, fine as the sands 
on which Ariel danced in the moonlight, till the sloping beach, like gold and silver dust 
mingled together, was terminated by a grassy bank lying deep in the soft shadows which 
the tangling foliage cast below. 

u To my surprise, beautiful statues, copies after the antique, peeped forth through the 
branches on the low balustraded wall nearest to me, and walks leading into other green 
and gorgeous wildernesses, were indicated by their gravelly line, and by the figures placed 
at their entrances. 

u In the middle of this piece of water sparkled and spouted numerous jets of water, from 
a marble pillar exquisitely carved. The flashing drops fell with a murmur of soft music 
into the ample tide below, where myriads of gold and silver fish played sportively about, 
disturbed, or probably amused, by the soft-sounding cataract. 

u Gorgeous water-lilies, with blossoms almost of a fabulous kind, for their unrivalled 
largeness and whiteness, were waving on the surface—a broad rafting of green leaves 
floating like an antique relief to them. The sinuous winding stems went tortuously into 
the depth below, where the cloudless heaven reflected itself with such vivid truthfulness, as 
made the pool a well of light, and of a depth that excited the imagination to dwell upon. 

11 My eye took in these objects—this splendid picture at a glance; but there was a living 
thing giving animation and vitality to a scene inexpressibly beautiful, and impressing it 
with a character, such as completes a painting by an old master—where nature in her solemn 
loveliness unveils herself, and where a single human figure adds a degree of enchantment 
to that which is all but perfect. 

u I recognized Aline ! 

u She was sitting on a bank—a half-smiling alarm was written on her solemn face ; her 
black hair streamed dank with moisture down her marble shoulders; her garments loosely 
drawn around her were huddled over her bosom, as if some sudden noise had startled her, 
and her innate modesty had hastened to its instinctive shelter. On a broken branch hung 
a wide-flapped hat—fitted for such a scorching sunshine as is experienced in that latitude. 
Wild flowers grew around the turf on which she sat, and tropical blooms, whose splendour 
no words can describe, perfected the picture. 


110 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


u I gazed upon her with astonishment, with an indescrihahle and tender yearning, and 
with an admiration that was intense. 

11 She saw me not, hut her lustrous eyes w r ere bent in the direction of the sound that had 
first alarmed her, for she had evidently been laving in the stream—her garments were wet 
with the lucid waters, and every feature was expressive of such child-like pleasure, such 
an absence of fear, that though she was startled, she gave no further heed to a sound 
arising from natural causes; and in a few moments she had flung on her wild and glowing 
garments, and resuming the palmetto hat, appeared like Virginia by the forest waters in 
the Mauritius. 

“ When this was over, she did not immediately move, but sat like one lost in reverie. 
Her face was bent down, the soft beautiful cheek leaned on the white faultless hand, and the 
elbow rested on the swarded bank; and there fell so profound and deep a silence all around, 
that I was almost pained by its peculiar and, at the moment, depressing influence. 

u For where she then was, the circumstances that must have caused her removal from 
New York, her new life, her new ties and associations,—all these struck with a vindictive¬ 
ness at the very roots of my dearest hopes, that I involuntarily said, 1 Adieu ! adieu, 
Aline! No seas nor continents can ever so effectually part us, as the simple fact that you 
yourself must have made your own election, and are here! —here of your own free-will, 
too!’ 

u I had an instinct all this time that I should see some one else—that there was another 
actor to appear presently in this scene, and give it life and colouring of a different com¬ 
plexion—and I was right. 

II Up between an alley of palms, where scarlet blossoms of incredible brilliancy and 
immense size, drooping from the creeping parasites that clung to the trunks, gave an inex¬ 
pressible magnificence to the scene, advanced a man, his limbs clad in the loose coat and 
trousers of a light and flimsy material, such as planters mostly wear, and on whose head 
the broad-brimmed shady hat was thrown. I recognized him at once. It was De Souche. 

u Expecting him, as I actually did, his presence crushed and cursed me. Every passion, 
even that of jealousy, was absorbed iu my wrathful, voiceless hatred. Since I had met 
with him, I knew what it was to experience those ferocious passions which slumber in 
every human heart. lie had actually made me a worse man. I was more than annoyed 
at myself for this. I was enraged; but what could I do ? He played (quite uncon¬ 
sciously) upon me, as an organist uses the stops of his grand instrument. 

u She looked up when he advanced, and smiled. 

u But, gracious heaven ! what a smile! I recoiled to look upon it. The white face— 
for it was white—had I knew not what of the sinister in it. There was bitterness, and a 
depth of despair almost degrading. 

II I saw his eye lighten, and his fierce lips curl, and a change come over his beautiful 
face. When he came up to her, he held out his hand with an imperious gesture, and she 
in turn held out hers to take it, not with gladness or welcome—and I felt something like 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


117 


satisfaction at witnessing this; but of what avail was this satisfaction, when I looked at 
the change a single moment, made in her heavenly aspect ? 

u She was metamorphosed into something earthly—merely earthly—a woman bound to 
a man by a tie she could not break, and which was destructive of all her high and lofty 

merits, in my eyes, as an adorable woman, for whom I would have done- Oh ! what 

would I not have done for her ? I no longer resisted the absorbing idea that she was the 
arbitress of my fate. I felt myself bound to continue unresistingly my blind devotion. 
By-and-by it will be seen how it was returned. At present, little is or can be known 
about that. 

“ I watched them both with the same tierce intensity that a panther or a leopard watches 
the antelope by the fresh fountain. In destroying this De Souch6, I would have destroyed 
both. In saving Aline, I might, perhaps, be also tempted to spare him, supposing so great 
a self-sacrifice was demanded by circumstances at my hands. 

u I watched them until they were out of sight, and then I felt like one wandering in 
darkness. The sunshine, which had been bright and glaring, grew dull and dim, and a 
mist was falling on all around me. Into the shade of the noble umbrageous trees they both 
vanished, like two lovers going to whisper their hearts’ secrets beside the murmuring 
fountain. That I could not tell— that, in fact, I would have refused to reply to. Where¬ 
fore, indeed, should I have permitted myself to dwell upon that eclipse of my one silent 
idea, which was blotted and blurred enough, God knows! 

u I know not how I retraced my steps. By the time that the sun was set, I was 
wandering in the streets of New Orleans, having already dined with my friend, and drunk 
more freely of his magnificent wine than I was in general accustomed to do. He had 
become used himself to my moody fits. I was to him a dreamy, foolish, whimsical fellow. 
I was 1 original,’ a 1 book-worm,’ anything, in fact, he liked; but whatever I allowed 
myself to be dubbed, I was left alone if it was my mood tc be so, and, uncontrolled and 
uncriticised, was permitted to do as I pleased. This blessed privilege, you may be sure, I 
used with latitude, and sometimes abused. 

u I was strolling—for my head beat so wildly within doors that I could not endure any 
restraint. It so happened that I had rambled into an unestimable quarter of the city, 
famous for its brawls, night-attacks, quarrels, and even its assassinations. It was the 
Fauxbourg Tremole, where the very first time that masked balls and casinos had been 
established at the barrieres of Paris, these fooleries had been imported. 

“ There they were—taverns, cafes, billiard-rooms, ball-rooms, and supper-rooms. The 
sound of music rang into the streets, which were gloriously lighted, in defiance of gas com¬ 
panies, by the moon. My brain was in a fever, and my heart was beating furiously. The 
excitement of thinking, the wine, the music, the air, many, many memories, all were 
corroding upon me at the moment, and I felt it as an insufferable weight that I must be 
rid of one way or other. 

“ I entered into a billiard-room, a noble and superb chamber altogether, laden with the 

2 G 



118 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


fumes of wine, spirits, and cigars. It was partially full. At the moment I opened the 
door, and let it fall hack, I recognized, in the first player I saw, De Souchd. 

11 Our eyes met: we knew each other. 

11 A bitter, half-malignant, half-scornful smile passed over his lips, and then he went on 
as if nothing had disturbed him. Calm and impassive, he continued to play on; and when 
the first surprise, and such revulsions of feeling as the reader may comprehend, had passed 
over me, I took my seat with an air as indifferent as any of the rest. 

“ My surprise, however, at the moment was unbounded. True, it would not take very 
long to walk from the city to the very spot where I beheld him a few hours back with 
Aline, and he might be an often frequenter of this place. At all events, there he was, and 
I felt a dogged, savage determination not to quit the place. It was a foolish, unfortunate 
meeting; but accident had done it, and I could not, for very shame, do what my better 
feelings prompted me to do—leave the room. I lighted my cigar, and sat down to look on. 

II Every now and then De Souche passed me as the play went forward, and as the 
place on which I happened to take my seat was somewhat close to the table, we were 
occasionally liable to come in contact; but I never moved, and had doggedly determined 
not to do so. 

“ 1 My friend,’ said he at last, in a tone of emphatic irony, 1 may I trouble you to move ?’ 

u I was drinking a glass of iced wine at the moment, which I had called for, and my 
only reply was, to toy with the glass, with the liquor, and with his patience, just as an 
epicure would with a rich morsel. 

“ I saw, with a malicious satisfaction—I saw the blood mount to his cheek, and the 
wicked gleam flash in his eye; and if my cheek and eye did not exhibit the same, I am 
free to confess it was not for lack of the same wicked feeling. 

“ 1 You are in my way, sir,’ he said, in a stern, low voice. 

u There were in the splendid room, the roues of the city—dressy, dashing men, brave 
and vile, good and bad, mingled alike. There were officers and civilians, the merchant, 
the rake, the ruffian. I had taken a stand. This accounts for my determination to 
support it. 

III Move then, and especially,’ I added, 1 move for your better convenience.’ 

u Those who were around us stared with astonishment; in the first place, because no 
man ever spoke in that manner (I was afterwards told) to De Souche, and in the second 
place, because I was so young, to be guilty of a breach of what might be termed ill man¬ 
ners, which, I think, was the case, speaking generally, on this occasion. 

11 To the surprise of all present, the Creole planter took a longer cue, and played his 
stroke of billiards without further notice, then biting his lip till the blood came, while I, in 
the meantime, was emptying my somewhat capacious glass. 

u I remarked that the stare of astonishment was heightened among all those present. 
They were struck with my audacity, or my impertinence or ignorance, and they were 
certainly struck with De Souchc’s forbearance. I, for my part, having my own feelings 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


119 


to look to, and remembering the past, was not at all astonished; for, just then, what was 
there I dared not do—dared not meet ? 

“ The game was ended. It was proposed to play another. The fiend of quarrelling, I 
think, must have entered into my very heart. I was as innocent as a child, on entering, of 
doing anything to annoy or to irritate any man. I had a sort of speaking acquaintance 
with a man present. I got up, and began to play for my own amusement. He came and 
spoke to me. We agreed to play for cigars and a bottle of wine. 

a 1 The board is engaged, gentlemen,’ said the marker. 

u 1 By whom ?’ I asked. 

u 1 By us, sir,’ said one of the former players in reply. 

u 1 Oh!’ I said, 1 you cannot monopolize all the amusements of the evening; and, in 
fine, I have promised to play, and I always like to keep my word.’ 

111 When a board is engaged,’ began this gentleman. 

“ 1 Play,’ I rudely said, addressing my companion; 11 you have the first stroke.’ 

u 1 Ho you comprehend, my unfledged youth, that New Orleans is not precisely like 
New York ?’ 

u This strange question was put to me by De Souchd, who stood before me. The veins 
in his forehead were swollen, his cheeks were spotted with a blood-red hectic, his fine hair, 
tossed in massive curls over his brow, and waving on his shoulders, gave relief to a head 
that was absolutely wondrous. If the man had not been so bad, I should even have for¬ 
given him his> robbing me of Aline. 

“ 1 Ah !’ said I, 1 you speak of New York, do you? I have left it lately,’ and I smoked 
away at my cigar. 

u 1 Have .you heard me speak ?’ he asked morosely, as his eyes flashed fire, and his lips 
writhed. 

u My friend—that is to say, my speaking acquaintance, for I never met him after— 
approached us, and said to me soothingly, 1 Come, come, what nonsense is this ?’ 

II Several men also gathered closer. The proximity of a collision is always attractive. 
I myself have always endeavoured to avoid them, and, for that reason, have, for the most 
part, found myself engaged in them, without the remotest idea of being entangled in busi¬ 
ness not appertaining to me. 

u De Souche and I stood opposite each other. 

«I heard the men around me speak. I was perfectly collected, and smoked my cigar. 

III And you,’ I said to the planter, 1 have you forgotten New York ?’ 

u His face grew terrible; for rage, malignancy, and assassination strove how to deform 
beauty. 

“ t Gentlemen,’ said he, in a cold and collected tone, ‘ this man has insulted me 
before-’ 

111 He has struck you before,’ said I, as calmly, 1 and threatened to throw you out of 
a window. He will add one threat more, that if you play ’ 




120 


TIIE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


u 1 There is only one conclusion to be drawn,’ said a man, advancing with the air of one 
taking an injured side. 

u 1 A duel, do you mean ?’ asked another eagerly. 

u 1 Certainly,’ was the response. 

“ 1 De Souchd, you are challenged. Name your terms,’ again spoke the ready friend, 
1 it’s all familiar matter.’ 

“ ‘ Now !—across the table !—pistols !—blindfold!—or breast to breast!’—was the next 
eager suggestion. 

u 1 It’s quite in his way that, I guess,’ added a fourth, in a drawling voice, but one very 
expressive of enjoyment. 

u 1 Gentlemen,’ I said, with as much coolness as I could command, ‘ I don’t fight duels 
for any man’s particular pleasure or whim, except for my own satisfaction. I shall have 
no objection to fling this man out of the window, though I don’t wish to break any 
bones; but I would rather fight a duel with any or with all of you, in preference to this 
pretending autocrat.’-1 filled up the rest with a look of disdain. 

u The reader will be easily satisfied that I had drank my sufficient quantity of wine to 
talk in this manner. It was the 1 Orlando Furioso,’ who challenged the world. It was 
the son of Charlemagne, who fought in the pass of Ivoncesvalles ! But, upon my word, I 
was quite in earnest. 

u ( I refuse to be shot down like a mad dog,’ I continued, 1 by such an animal as this; 
and if he asks me to fight with him, he will know w'hat my reply will be.’ 

u 1 A refusal, of course,’ said an officer in undress, with a supercilious lip. 

111 Sir,’ I said, with a fixed look, 1 1 am no great hand with pistols—besides they make 
a noise; but as I know that there is a room here where we can practise with foils, 1 have no 
objection in life to break off the button and play a pass with you.’ 

u A murmur ran among them, but I cannot assert that it was one of admiration at my 
daring, or whether it was one of irony or ridicule; but still I smoked on composedly, and 
waited either for the play or the affray to begin. 

“ The officer said, ( Sir, you misunderstand me.’ 

u 1 1 believe, sir, I aid,’ said I in reply, very drily. 

II It w T as hardly possible for any one to stand this; and, consequently, he swore, 

1 Zounds, if-’ 

III This is the man with whom I have business, if with any,’ I interrupted him without 
ceremony; c and I have said that I refuse to fight with him’—(I indicated De Souche with 
my finger)— 1 1 refuse to fight with him in his murderous manner, for I would rather flog 
him—yes, as he flogs his slaves. I would rather place a cane about his shoulders, and 
certainly I would willingly throw him into the street!’ 

u The wine was playing gambols with my poor brain, for I never talked of punishment 
so violently before.” 




THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


121 


u Our friend Ralph seems to have a perfect genius for talking , ” said Dewbank, inter¬ 
rupting me in my reading. “ Did you ever hear of such a fledgeling in New Orleans ? If 
that should be no bounce now-” 

u No,” I drily replied ; “ but will you let me go on : I am interested, if not-” 

“ Oh, go on,” said he curtly. 

u And, as far as the 1 bounce’ goes, I’ll ask Ralph himself, if you like, whether he was 
more excited when writing this than should be consistent with a truth-telling man.” 

“ Ask him no such thing,” cried Dewbank. “ Snakes and fire ! do you want to see 
Ralph and myself walk out into the woods with a rifle a piece.” 

“ No, I don’t,” I answered j but still I didn’t think you were afraid either of Ralph 
Potter or his rifle.” 

“ Henry Clay Crockett,” said my irritable friend, bending his frowning brows upon me, 
and speaking with a gravity that was dangerous to my risible faculties, “ Henry Clay 
Crockett, a man aint an angel, and you can’t raise sobs like pumpkins. I’ll go as far as to 
say that there’s more of the devil in me sometimes than any other thing—lightning packed 
up ready for explosion-” 

“Bowies, butchers, blood, and 1 blastation! ’ ” as Fuseli used to swear, “don’t work 
yourself irp to duelling pitch, my dear Ewart; if so, get your pistol and stand opposite the 
pier-glass,—I’ll do the same,—we shall have principals and seconds,—nay, you shall even 
fire at me, if you please—in the glass,—your wounded honour will be healed, and no blood 
lost. I won’t speak to you again of fear, upon my conscience. Are you satisfied, or must 
you scalp me'?” 

“ I think I must let you live,” he returned, laughing, “ in spite of myself, if it’s only to 
finish the reading. Come, get into the onslaught at once.” 

I then resumed the manuscript. 

“ Dc Souche was smiling darkly, and one or two of the bystanders were shrugging their 
shoulders. 

“ 1 If any one present,’ I resumed, irritated by this smiling, 1 if any present think that 
I fear this man, or any other, I shall be happy to undeceive him in any form or way he 
riiay choose. As for him,’ again meaning De Souche, ‘ I have merely to say, that I 
believe my life worth that of a hundred such as his, and that I have no right to risk its 
loss by contact with such a ruffian !’ 

“ Heavens ! how the human tiger bounded when he heard the concentrated bitterness 
and ras:e with which I designated him—a ruffian. He fell back as if he had been stabbed. 
His face underwent the most convulsive changes. The uncontrollable rage which boiled 
and bubbled in his blood was too much for him to support. With a frightful cry he rushed 
towards me. 

“ Two or three flung themselves across him and arrested him. He struggled, and his 
strength was evidently tremendous; but he was effectually prevented, and stood panting, 

2 H 





122 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


glaring, and muttering, while I, with a tantalizing smile, looked coldly upon his impotent 
wrath. 

u ( Whoever desires to see me, or to speak with me, will find me at that address,’ I 
said, and flinging my card upon the table, I quitted the chamber. I had, without doubt, 
created such a sensation as was rare even in this city of adventure and excitement, and 
made enemies if I made no friends. 

u I was walking along the banquette , or elevated pathway of the road, about half an 
hour after this occurred—pacing to and fro, trying with all my power to calm the fury in 
my blood, and scarcely able to do so under any form or circumstance. It was very dark 
at this moment, for there were no lights in the immediate neighbourhood, though in the 
distance I beheld them flashing, and the moon was obscured in clouds. 

u All at once I heard a rapid trampling of footsteps, and two or three men precipitated 
themselves upon me with such force and violence as took me off my legs, and, by conse¬ 
quence, saved my life, for I felt that a weapon had grazed my shoulder, and I rolled over 
once or twice. 

u I gave a cry for help, and recovering my feet, grappled one of them, whom I soon 
astonished with two or three blows that confused him considerably; and the second I 
tripped as he came, and sent him tumbling, with a crash that was almost frightful, into 
the road. 

II My third man, however, was not to be got rid of so easily, and there were one or two 
more waiting for the opportunity of striking at me with their knives. Matters were getting 
very desperate, and my life was in the most imminent danger. I repeated my cries for 
help in a louder voice. 

u 1 Snakes and fire !’ shouted a loud, peculiar voice, 1 what on airth have we here ? A 
white scalping party, by the ’tarnal. Hug away tliar, strangar,’ he added, 1 and I’ll double 
up the critters,’—and, without more ado, I heard some heavy, dull blows, as if the butt of a 
gun was struck against a wool-pack ; and a few hollow groans, together with the sudden 
disappearance of the dusky figures I had seen around me, indicated that, with the excep¬ 
tion of him that was fiercely seeking my throat with one hand, and lowering his knife with 
the other, I had nothing more to fear. 

u But my enemy would not let me go. As his face was close to mine, I could feel that 
his breath was hot and fiery. My strength was fast giving way; but, by a desperate 
effort, I had him across my knee, his back bent against it. 

III Assassin!’ I whispered in his ear, 1 what is the price of blood in New Orleans ?’ and, 
in turn, I pressed his throat till I had nearly strangled him ; then lifting him up, without 
regard to his comfort, or the ease and safety of his bones, I flung him into the road below 
after his companions. 

u 1 Well done, strangar !’ shouted my sturdy friend, who had arrived so opportunely to 
my assistance. The moon now shining clearly, exposed to view the strong and rugged 
outlines of a grizzly-bearded, hunter-clad man, of some forty years of age, whose limbs, 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


123 


vast as they were, seemed to he nothing more than masses of dry and indurated muscle. 
The frank, hold, "bluff face had an expression of great good-humour, in which some slight 
touch of the sarcastic seemed to linger. 

u ( Thank you, friend,’ said I, giving him my hand, which he griped as though his 
brawny fist had been a vice. 1 Thanks for your help. It would have gone hard with me 
but for your assistance.’ 

u 1 Aye, aye, strangar,’ he replied, assentingly. ‘ Thar’s no doubt but the ’tarnal coons 
war gwoing to scour a bowie in you ; but let’s hev a squint at ’um ; I reckon that these 
two ar ’bout settled,’ and he turned those he had so ponderously saluted with the butt of 
his heavy rifle over with his foot. They were ruffians of the lowest grade by their dress 
and faces, and formed a portion of the scoundrelly cut-throats that infested that quarter. I 
was not quite so certain about the one I had been in most danger from, but looking into 
the road I found he had made the best of his way from the spot. 

“ c And the tother devils have pulled foot, I guess,’ added the man, with a laugh ; 1 but 
if you’ve got a cut, as ’taint onlikely, for these cussed critters kin do the best man a mis¬ 
chief; I calkilate you’d better strike into a trail for hum’ (home). 

u I cast a glance on the two, who still lay motionless on the ground. 

“ 1 Don’t be afeard,’ he resumed ; £ nothin’ less than hemp, and that well twisted, can 
finish them up, I reckon. Leave them in the air : they’ll be all right, and, as there may 
be a few more of the same mongrel breed about, I’ll strike tracks with you.’ 

u My gratitude was extreme, and as there was no absolute fear that the lives of the two 
wretches were actually endangered, and that I had, in addition, but little reason to be very 
merciful to them, I accepted the offer of his company, and we were soon safely at my 
friend’s house. 

u I could not part with my brave defender in the abrupt manner he proposed. I invited 
him in, and, with cigars and whiskey placed before him, we drew out of this splendid and 
original specimen of the backwoods, some amusing and interesting relations concerning 
his adventurous life.” 

I now closed up the MS., and stoutly refused to read any further for Ewart’s edification, 
and as Balpli came in from the theatre soon after, we spent the rest of the evening in a 
desultory but very pleasant manner. 


Sbt. ©Ioufc. 

The next day, in pursuance of a determination I had made to visit some of the most 
remarkable places in the neighbourhood of Paris, we all three of us started in a conveyance 
we had hired, in order to make an excursion to St. Cloud. 

We quitted Paris by the barrier of Versailles, because we could not think‘of neglecting 
a visit to Passy, a charming little village, doubly interesting to us Americans from its hav¬ 
ing been the spot which Franklin chose as the place of his sojourn, during the period when 


124 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


the enthusiasm of the people was the forerunner of the terrible days that were in store for 
France. Here dwelt the hard-headed, calm-hearted, far-seeing, prudent old printer of 
Philadelphia, who destroyed t\\e, prestige of a court, and without heeding or troubling him¬ 
self about it, set fashions for the brilliant and the witty of Paris—led the ton of France— 
and, without an effort, created a moral revolution in the heart of the kingdom that was 
as remarkable as it was complete. 

To behold the descendants of the old noblesse , men who boasted of the loftiest names in 
the country, surrender their lace, their powder, their wigs, their frippery, to the prosaic 
shears that left them the simply severe mementoes of a primitive time—paint, patches, and 
perukes, giving way before the grave contempt of a simple citizen of America—one would 
have supposed the antique days had come back—and that Lycurgus had visited a Sybarite 
settlement, and shamed them into simplicity of life and manner out of the full enjoyment 
of Persian, or indeed Parisian luxuries. 

St. Cloud is but five miles from the city, and the country is beautiful in the extreme. 
We pass under the shadows which La Muette, one of king Louis XIV.’s beautiful bits of 
extravagance, dedicated to Pompadour. The Park is a blending of woods and gardens, 
copses and forest-trees, and one knows not even which prevails. Keeping to the right of 
Autueil, through the alleys of the wood, the whole forming that delicious resort of Paris 
Cockaigne, the Bois du Boulogne, we arrive at last at the Pont St. Cloud, a light iron- 
bridge which crosses the Seine, and instantly you are in St. Cloud. On the one hand, 
noble and imperious, the park with its rich, natural beauties, admirably seconded by the 
opulence of art—the Chateau, with its two terraces—the arbours—the cascade, unrivalled 
by anything of the kind in Europe—demand attention. The winding Seine, with its green 
fringe, interspersed with white cottages and thick copses, meets the view—and the pleasant 
village upon the undulating height, spreads itself out in the midst of the morning air, which 
carries about, in murmuring sweetness, the fragrance of the buds which break in June. 

Of the Chateau, originally, I have not been able to glean much, and what I have 
gathered is somewhat confused; but that it was not always royal property is certain, 
inasmuch as Louis XIV., who had a fancy for buying and building, and a keen eye to those 
delicious nooks here and there to be found, purchased it in 1G58, and gave it to his brother, 
afterwards the Regent—he who rendered vice so fashionable in France. It remained 
in the possession of his family until 1782, when Louis XVI. bought it for the hapless 
Marie Antoinette, and since then it has always been a royal residence. 

We travel, or rather we dreamily wander round and round, in order to look upon the 
Chateau from every available point, and find that it is rather a remarkably difficult thing 
to do, the trees are so lofty and the foliage so dense ; but the mystic greenness of this 
u Castle of Indolence” still pleases, and we care little about details of architecture, and do 
not heed whether one part bears the marks of Time, while the other flourishes in all the 
freshness of modern style and innovation. We came perpetually to the cascade. No 
description of it can so effectually exhibit it to the reader, as a reference to the plate (vide 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


125 


vignette), and we leave him to this task, while ouv imagination carries us "back to a few of 
the remarkable events connected with St. Cloud. 

It was here that the fanatical despot, Henry III., fixed his quarters, after having, with 
his butcherly brother Charles IX., left Paris—left France—floating in the blood of mur¬ 
der and assassination, and by his crimes compelled the Sorbonne to absolve his subjects 
from their allegiance. Here it was that Jaques Clement, a Dominican priest, filled even 
to explosion with the regicide doctrines which the King’s atrocities compelled the people 
to entertain, obtained admittance to him, and stabbed him in the belly. This blow put a 
stop to the civil war then raging. It was here, too, that if tales and traditions, and strong 
probabilities lie not, Henrietta, the wife of Charles I. of England, was poisoned. A more 
* pernicious woman, unless it be Catherine de Medici, never perhaps existed. She put, too, 
her husband in peril. She compelled him to sacrifice his friends ; and it was, doubtless, 
through her that Strafford went to the block. She was poisoned at St. Cloud; but an 
impenetrable mystery covers the conclusion of a life of sanguinary intrigue, and the dark 
history must be left untold, till some one more adventurous dares to lift up the veil. 

As we gaze up the walks, where a soft but solemn shade is thrown by the trees which 
are cut on each side of you straight as a wall, and which, with dark openings here and 
there, lead into walks where the most glowing sunshine falls with a mysterious dimness, 
we give a thought to the stormier days of the Revolution, when the distant thunder began 
to rumble and to menace, and Louis XVI. thought that he could carry his anointed head 
as proudly as his predecessors. Little did he dream that the hands of a drunken butcher 
should toss it from the scaffold among the reeking and filthy straw already Avet Avith blood. 

On yonder terrace, with his cloak bloAvn Avildly about by the autumn winds, stands the 
stormy Mirabeau. He looks upon the heaAmn, with a vast gathering of Avrath in his tem¬ 
pestuous eye. His soul is stirred up Avithin him, as though it Avere tossing on the Avaves of 
restless and mysterious deeps, Avhose profundity appal and irritate him, but from Avhicli he will 
not draw back. A fair woman, Avith her haughty broAV stricken by terror into humiliation, 
suddenly appears. She cries out, “ SaA r e us !” and kneels at his feet. It is the Queen ! 

But the man who in his gigantic strength had set the fatal Avheel rolling, could not noAV 
stay it. The Revolution had begun, and the smell of blood filled the air, and down it Avent 
into the bottomless abyss, crushing, destroying, mangling into shapeless masses all it met 
Avith in its way, leaving men to stare aghast at the grim ruin it had made, and to Avhich 
they had lent all their strength and energy. Marie Antoinette went forth from St. Cloud 
to the guillotine. 

It was here that the sous-licutenant of Toulon first asserted the unquailing obstinacy of 
his character, and it was also in this chateau that he Avas hailed Emperor. 

Here sat Charles the Tenth when the neAVS of the next dethronement came to him. 
“ Sire,” said the messenger, “ it is no longer a revolt—it is a revolution,” and truly it 
was so. 

Fed by fancies such as these, no wonder that I wandered here and strolled there, silent 

2 I 


126 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


and saddened by the resuscitations that ever and anon started up before me, impressed with 
the beauty of the musical grove, struck with the wild and picturesque revealings the opening 
walks sometimes revealed, and startled in turn by the grim and haggard face of some victim 
or other, who must needs die a terrible death, in order to give that indefinite empressement 
to a scene that has become historical. 

One of the remarkable things also, among many others, is the Lantern of Diogenes, 
placed on the top of an obelisk erected by Napoleon in one of the loveliest places that the 
park offers. From the top of this you have a magnificent and extended view. 

On the one hand, an avenue of beeches leads to Ville d’Array, an opulent suburb, where 
rich citizens, artists, and men of letters who love peaceful solitudes, dwell. The fine road 
that surrounds the neighbouring country was made by the Dauphines. Bellevue, Sevres, 
Mont Valerien, once a burying-ground, afterwards a fortress: in truth, the whole country, 
as far as Versailles, is charming in the highest degree; and from thence take a circle, of 
which St. Cloud shall be the centre, and perhaps all France cannot show, if wilder and 
grander, more lovely scenery—so many valleys of Tempe—so many glades like the Arden 
of Shakespeare—so many fine old chateaus, of which Bubens’ may stand as the type, being 
found and scattered abroad in all directions. 

At the obelisk surmounted by the lantern, parties rejoin each other after they have 
lost themselves in the mazes of the park. The steamboat waits on the river to bear some 
away—the vehicles are all ready to depart. The feasters, the laughers, the bon vivants who 
have emptied the last dish and the last flask, prepare to go. The younger ones draw closely 
up to each other, and take their seats side by side, to murmur and to whisper—and when 
the dewy twilight comes down on the woods, all are departed. 

It was with a sense of delicious languor and pleasant fatigue that I went to rest as the 
pretty chambermaid bade me “Good night!” and Dewbank’s snores already indicated 
that he was in dream-land. 

As I had it in intention to say something of the Bastile, of the Paris barricadeur y and 
of several others in connection with the revolutionary changes, I find that I can best 
embody the matter in the following story, which I have picked up—no matter how—but 
which appears to me to contain so graphically the germ of those mighty changes which 
have convulsed Europe, even w’hile, episodically, it makes mention of places and localities 
interesting to the reader, that without further preface I introduce it, seeing that as we are 
soon to enter into Germany, and have much to relate concerning it, I can find no better 
opportunity than the present. I commence, therefore, at once, and as it is peculiarly illus¬ 
trative of that frightful system of despotism actively at work in France till within the last 
three quarters of a century, I shall entitle it, 

®lje Hettre be CTndjet. 

Louis XV., with the familiar lessons of Louis XIV., and of the Regency before him, 
though he cannot be taxed with going to their extent, has yet much to answer for. Certain 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


127 


terrible epochs of his life are marked with crime and blood. Our story, therefore (strictly 
founded upon fact) will exemplify the abuses of the power which he wielded, turning the 
trust his people reposed in him so blindly, in order to wound and oppress them, and to 
crush any who opposed his infamous designs. 

It is not intended to heighten the odious colouring of his life, nor to tear the veil which 
falls over those orgies held in palaces whose chambers were hung with pictures a la Main- 
tenon. If we only add, that these were taken from the most glowing portions of heathen 
mythology, the reader will comprehend their ’nature much better than we can describe them. 
All episodes of the Bastile are those of terror; but their revelations have their uses, as it is 
one of the symptoms by which the spirit of the present age fosters in man a noble anger 
against tyranny, and by drawing forth his sympathies on behalf of the suffering, we are 
assured that the humanity of the reader will not slumber. 

Premising this we commence our story. 

One glorious afternoon in the summer of 1755, a party of elegantly dressed men, for the 
most part young, with here and there a grey head, were gathered in one of the superb 
apartments cf the Palais Loyal. 

This apartment bore in its decorations the certainly tasteful arrangement of the regency; 
the ornaments were of the most flowing as well as flowery description, among which Sevres 
china, and ornaments of gilded Limoges enamel, were most conspicuous—the taste of the 
latter Louis being much in favour of such elegancies. The gilding of the chamber, cornices, 
pilasters, and portions of furniture, was heavy, massive, and inclining, from its cumbrous 
elegance, to be even grand; while the tapestries, the curtains, the cushions of the 
ottomans and stiff-backed chairs, were from the Gobelins’ factory. Silken stuffs of the 
finest Lyons texture were elegantly fitted in pannels, which in turn gave glowing and 
beautiful relief to large medallions worked in alabaster, and the whole had a superb and 
finished air. 

The windows opened to a terrace, where lay, in stiff regular ranges, the most superb 
blooms of the tropics; while below the terrace stretched the great garden, with its box- 
hedges cut like walls, between which you might walk across the beautiful sward as though 
in so many impervious and secure retreats. 

The day was beautiful, and the group of gentlemen seemed to think so, for they carried 
on a gay, animated, and very nonsensical conversation among themselves, from which we 
will endeavour to gather that which relates most closely to our history. 

u The king is late in returning from his council to-day,” observed one, a handsome 
languid-looking young fop, taking snuff after a slight pause, as though the parenthesis was 
to fill up a gap in the dialogue. 

“ You forget, rnon ami” returned his friend, “ the king never wearies himself long at 
council, unless the Abbe St. Andre is with him.” 

11 Well, what do you infer from that, monsieur?” demanded the first speaker. 


128 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


u That his majesty in such a case performs two important duties at one and the same 
time, for you will remember that the Abbe is his confessor, and that Louis remains with 
him alone when all the others are departed.” 

“ Hush! will you, indiscreet babbler that you are?” said an elder courtier (the Count 
de Mouillon by name) in a lower tone, while shrugs and winks passed round: “ this 
thoughtless devil of a St. Remi will mar his advancement.” 

“ Peste! why should I hush?” cried the young man, with a noble but somewhat free 
air; for though the temperance of the king was at times almost cynical, yet the Avines and 
half-emptied glasses on the table, round Avhich these were noAv gathered, shoAved that at this 
period such abstinence Avas not the order of the day. 11 Why should I be silent?” he con¬ 
tinued, “ since the king himself makes a boast of it?” 

“ A boast of AA’hat, my dear fclloAV?” demanded another, with a most decidedly aristo¬ 
cratic bearing and lordly face ; for if nobility can go by physiognomy, the Marquis la Fleury 
Avould rank with the highest in the land. u I have so lately returned to court that I am 
ignorant of half the pleasant little contretemps which served so amazingly to shorten the 
Aveariness of one’s excessively short life.” 

11 Do but hear this, La Fleury,” cried the audacious St. Itemi; u he w T ould Avish us to 
believe that there is no such thing as ennui ,—no such thing as a gentleman being positively 
and decidedly incapable at times of knoAving what the devil to do Avith himself. I appeal 
to you, if it is possible he can by even a chance be right?” 

u For my part,” returned La Fleury, Avith such ease and collectedness, as instantly 
checked the laugh that Avas beginning to be general, u for my part, when one asks a 
question, or Avlien an assertion is hazarded, I am always Avilling to return to it. Noav I 
haA r e no doubt but that St. Remi has something that is charming and piqiiante to tell us. 
He says the king boasts of it, —hoav Avhat is it? My dear fclloAV, do you not perceive 
anxiety written in every face?” 

There Avas a stare and a general laugh at the gravity with Avhich the young marquis 
delivered himself of this ; and St. Remi, with imperturbable good humour, which Avas one 
phase of his great gossiping habits, said, “ Well, then, I Avill tell you hoAV the king laughs 
at these things;” and he began thus :— 

“ The other night I Avas honoured by being in company Avith his majesty, the Abbe St. 
Andre, and several others: his majesty was telling an anecdote of the preceding night. 
You must knoAV that Louis Avent unexpectedly to sup w r ith a favourite actress, residing in 
the Rue de Rivoli, because his useful ally, the Abb£ St. Andre, had inferred that the lady 
in question did not carry her notions of prudery to the extremest limit, but had, on the 
contrary, invited a favourite lover to sup with her.” 

u That is the divine little Soncrisse to the life,” ejaculated La Fleury, Avith great glee; 

11 but, pardon me—proceed.” 

11 Just so,” assented St. Remi. 11 Well, she hearing of this most unexpected call, Avas 
greatly alarmed. While on entering the house, his majesty Avas informed that she Avas 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


129 


very ill, and, indeed, he found her lying, wrapped up on a couch, with every symptom of 
sickness—if the coverings beneath which she lay were any rule to judge by. 

u 1 Good evening, madame,’ said the king; ( I am come to sup with you, but I beg you 
to receive my condolence on your being so suddenly unwell. The exertion of playing your 
part to-night has been too much for you.’ 1 Indeed, your majesty,’ replied she, 1 it is 
the case—I am exceedingly unwell.’ 1 That is the more unfortunate for me,’ said Louis, 
with a sigh, ‘for I intended to do myself the pleasure of supping with you.’ ‘ Alas ! your 

majesty, unhappy that I am! I have nothing to offer you but a partridge or two—that-’ 

c Vive Dieu ! the very thing,’ exclaimed his majesty, 1 for I am passionately fond of par¬ 
tridges, as you know, madame. Pray, let them be,sent for.’ ” 

The courtiers, on hearing this relation, were all anxiety and eagerness. There was 
something in the event so bordering upon what might be called a seasoned bit of court 
scandal, that La Mouillon, who had been used to the gay days of the regency, rubbed his 
hands and said 11 Ah ! ah ! and what said the charming little Soncrisse to that?” 

“ You shall hear,” replied the young gentleman. u The partridges were brought, and 
the king sat himself down to the table, while the actress herself was in a most unenviable 
state of suspense. But what was her astonishment, when having eaten a portion of one, 
his majesty took a whole one, and opening a loaf of bread, placed it between, flung both 
under the bed, and rising up, took his hat. ‘ Mon Dieu! sire,’ she cried, ‘ why does your 
majesty throw the partridge under my couch ?’ ‘ Because, madame,’ replied the king, 

‘ every man must live, and your friend beneath your couch must not be left with a wish to 
cut my throat because I have eaten his supper,’ and then taking up his hat, his majesty 
departed; and when he had ended the story,” added St. Remi, u he laughed the loudest of 
all, while St. Andrd bent his head towards him and said, ‘ Ah ! sire, if I did not look that 
your majesty’s confidence was not abused, my conscience would leave me sleepless. Your 
grandsire, the great Louis, or even the Regent, would have given a cardinal’s hat for such 
a man.’ ” 

u And what said the king to that interested addition of the worthy abb6 ?” demanded 
La Fleury. 

“ He said,” replied St. Remi, 111 Monsieur l’Abbd, you will be good enough, if you 
wish this to be acknowledged, to apply to the queen—she may recognise the service, and 
thank you.’ ” Loud shouts of laughter greeted the conclusion of St. Remi’s characteristic 
relation. 

u That is as good as anything I have ever heard during the regency,” said La Mouillon, 
who lingered regretfully on that gone time. 

u Peste ! but you are very fond of going backward in order to find parallels for witty 
things,” said St. Remi. 

« In going back, Monsieur le Comte,” replied La Mouillon, with a stately inclination, 
11 one retraces the footsteps of our youth when all was of roseate hue when we were gay, 
brave, amorous : and now-” 

2 K 




130 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


u Well, what now ?” demanded La Flemy. 

u Eh lien /” exclaimed the old courtier, briskly, yet with a touch of regret in his tone, 
“ it cannot be denied that we of that period are growing old.” 

“ Fie, now,” said another; u that is an assertion, I know, which could not once be got 
out from you at the rapier’s point.” 

u Monsieur,” was the reply, “ there was a lady’s age concerned in the affair, and it is a 
matter of poetry and religion to permit them to be for ever young. Hebe is eternal!” and 
with a gesture of elegant and high breeding, he took three or four minuet steps apart, his 
enamelled box held in one hand, and his laced handkerchief in the other—a fair specimen 
of the heartless, but certainly elegant vanity of his age. 

u Apropos,” cried St. Remi, “ what think you of Lully’s Bellerophon , which was played 
last night at St. Cloud ?” 

“ Oh! it was very florid and brilliant; and, in fact,” added La Fleury, with some degree 
of severity, “ it has but one fault.” 

“ Aha !” ejaculated the old courtier, turning quickly round, u come now, your one fault? 
—it must be something terrible, this one fault.” 

11 Why, the fault is, that Lully lived in the reign of Louis XIV., and that the Belle¬ 
rophon was not composed for our own Louis.” 

La Mouillon smiled with a gratified air. It was a compliment to the grand monarque 
that he appreciated ; but lie lifted up his finger and said, “ Hush ! monsieur, the king must 
not hear you say so.” 

u By the bye,” suddenly observed another nobleman, anxious to give the conversation a 
turn, addressing La Fleury, “ did I not hear you say that you had unexpectedly seen our 
old friend, Queret Demery, yesterday ?” 

• “ True, I did so. I happened to be coming into Paris from Batignolles, and entering 

the quarter of the Chaussee d’Antin, I met a carriage driving towards the Barriere, when 
who should I see in it but Demery himself, his wife, and child.” 

“ His wife! Ah ! she was very beautiful,” said St. Remi. 

u A real little angel,” added La Fleury. u Only fancy a descendant of the house of 
Coligny quitting the court at the age of seventeen to live in the country.” 

“ It is an exceedingly Gothic taste,” observed La Mouillon, taking a pinch of snuff, and 
shaking the redundance off his ruffles. 

11 To live at Montmartre too,” added the young nobleman, who had first broached the 
subject. “ Peste! one does not often see this sort of thing done.” 

“ It is surely patriarchal,” said La Mouillon, with a slight subacidity in his tone, “for a 
woman of the court to live at home with her husband in a farm, and overlook poultry : it 
is really incredible.” 

“ Monsieur,” frowned La Fleury, 11 it is I who tell you this ; and,” added he, haughtily, 
“ in the court of Louis XY. we are used to speak the truth.” 

u Whatever we used to do during the regency, you would insinuate,” returned the old 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


131 


courtier, smiling; “but was it not said,” be added, taking another pinch of snuff from a 
box which bore a portrait of Madame de Montespan on the lid, u that our worthy abbd was 
a lover of this remarkable lady, whom Heaven long preserve ?” 

“ But by this time his majesty has totally forgotten Marie de Montrecour, to whom the 
queen was so sincerely attached,” interrupted one of the group. “ Why it must be four or 
five years ago.” 

u They had a bright boy of about that age with them in the carriage,” replied La 
Fleury. 11 It is just five years ago ; I remember it very well,—do you not, St. Remi ?” 

u Yes, truly do I; for it caused a great sensation in the Rue de Rivoli when it was 
known that the beautiful Marie, the pride of the court, and the toast of the chevaliers, was 
soberly intending to quit the gaieties of Paris, and to live in the country.” 

“ The country is very charming,” observed La Mouillon, u especially for pleasant little 
parties in the great gardens, or for a masking. Ah! in the days of the regency we did not 
want for such. And you say that they live at Montmartre ?” 

u I have been there several times since they were married. You remember that Queret 
Demery and myself were fellow-soldiers when we carried the war into Africa,” said La 
Fleury ;— u and the place is a perfect little paradise, over which she presides as its veritable 
angel. Just imagine a sweet cottage bosomed in the very midst of myrtles, with gentle 
lawns for pasturing, while their garden in the summer is not to be surpassed by the most 
gorgeous gardens of Versailles or Fontainebleau.” 

u But in the winter, what do they then ?” demanded a nobleman. 

u 0, then they reside by Lake Leman, or in Tuscany, where he has purchased a little 
villa. He has a passion for gardens and statues, has Demery ; and with his library, and 
his wife and child, the man must live like one belonging to that remarkably fabulous golden 
age we have read of in Horace or Virgil.” 

11 Messieurs, the king !” whispered one of them suddenly. 

The courtiers immediately uncovered, and turning round, started as they found Louis 
standing at the entrance. 

The king had been standing for some time unseen, and had heard the conclusion of the 
conversation so abruptly broken. Beside him was the abbe ; and as the king, in catching 
the name of Marie Montrecour, grasped the arm of St. Andrd, that worthy waved his hand 
to those in attendance—who were following Louis—to retire, which signal was immediately 
obeyed. 

A tide of recollections, bitter and sweet, swept through the mind of the king, while there 
also came into the abbe’s heart, like a black shadow, the recollection of an insulted suit—of 
noble anger against a base proposal; the remembrance of his playing a part of duplicity, 
and of having been threatened with exposure. With an instinctive intuition the man com¬ 
prehended the king’s emotion. He well knew the value of that old adage, 11 Wait—thy 
revenge will come.” He had waited, and the time was come. 

«Good day, messieurs,” said the king, moving forward, as the courtiers fell back in 


132 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


respectful silence, and waiting till the king should individually address them. They stood 
in a semicircle. 

“ La Mouillon,” began Louis, u I would see you in my cabinet in an hour : pray you 
wait me.” The courtier departed. 

“1 wish some one to be sent to Lyons,” continued the king. 

11 1 can recommend St. Remi to such an office,” said the abbe; u he has discretion and 
coolness.” 

u Will Monsieur le Comte accept the office ?” asked the king, smiling. 

u Most willingly, sire,” repeated the young man, pleased at this familiar notice. 

u Be pleased to demand your paper from the prefect. Wait for me at the Louvre. In 
less than an hour I will give you full instruction for your journey,” and St. Remi departed, 
his heart elate with joy. 

The king cast a keen glance on the abb£, and by an imperceptible movement denoted 
the Marquis la Fleury. 

11 Your majesty,” observed the abbe, taking the hint, 11 required a brave and trusty man 
to wait on the States-General of Holland. I am bound to say that the last trust of Mon¬ 
sieur le Marquis was executed with skill, fidelity, and tact.” 

“ Be it so,” replied Louis, who, while he winced at this dissimulation which placed him 
so servilely in the hands of St. Andre, was also anxious to hint or to adopt. u The papers 
are in my portfolio—in the Red Chamber there is sealed a letter of instruction when you 
cross the frontiers. Depart at once, monsieur.” 

a Sire, you know me,” said La Fleury, lialf-kneeling to kiss Louis’ hand, while the abbe 
brought in the packets. 11 1 will not rest till I fulfil your desire.” 

11 Adieu! monsieur,” said the king, and La Fleury also departed. “ Gentlemen,” added 
the king, after a few moments had elapsed, u have the complaisance to leave us.” 

With a low obeisance each courtier quitted the room, and Louis was left with St. Andrd. 

The king had flung himself into a chair with a jaded and blaze air, with that air in fact 
which denotes that the moral energy was enervated by moral lassitude. It was at this 
period of Louis’ life too, when he had plunged into wilder dissipation ; besides, the name 
of Marie had roused his emotion; but his whole looks were expressive of discontent. 

The abb£ looked upon him a moment, and then, with a wicked drollery in his eye, 
drawing some papers of a rather bulky appearance from his portfolio, he advanced and 
said— 

“ Sire, as you are alone, and seem to have leisure for business, I would trouble you by 
going over these papers with you.” 

The king looked with an alarmed air upon the formidable mass cf writing, and turning 
away, replied, 11 1 have no interest in business to-day.” 

“ That is unfortunate, sire ; but-” 

“ Why do you not find me some amusement, then ?” demanded the king, impatiently. 
“ Apropos ,” added he, u of whom were these gentlemen speaking when we entered ?” 




THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


133 


u Of Madame Demery,” was the abbd’s answer; “ she whom you formerly knew as 
Mademoiselle Montrecour.” 

11 True : the queen deprived me of her society,” said Louis, with some spleen. u Be¬ 
tween my minister and the queen ,pardieu! I am reminded of Sancho Panza at his feast.” 

The abbe began to laugh, but immediately checked it when he saw that the brows of 
Louis were darkening. Then, with an insinuating tone and gesture, he said— 

“ Sire, you have got rid of those two meddling young gentlemen, Monsieur le Marquis 
la Fleury, and Monsieur le Comte St. Bemi,—it was a judicious stroke.” 

u That reminds me,” remarked Louis, thoughtfully, u that Monsieur Demery was pre¬ 
sented to me formerly as a brave and noble man.” 

“ True, sire; and those qualities cost you one of the most lovely women of the court. 
Imagine, sire, a face whose ingenuous expression is only rivalled by the most clear com¬ 
plexion ; whose charming lips laugh, while the sweet softness of the eye, so full of languor 
and voluptuous tenderness, express every emotion of the heart.” 

The king was silent, but every word the abbe spoke fell into his soul, and the changing 
features betrayed that at last something within him had been sensibly touched, for at last 
his brows lowered as he spoke. 

“ If I remember rightly,” he began, u this Sieur Demery did not do us the courtesy of 
consulting us on this match ?” 

“ He did not, sire,” said the abbd ; u the man was known by his presumption as well 
as by any other quality.” 

“ Indeed ! I forgot it then ; but such an ambition ought to have been checked,” and 
the king bit his gloves. 

u It is never too late for your majesty to correct a fault in others,” pursued St. Andrd. 

a Hum ! You say that she is beautiful—this Mademoiselle Montrecour ?” 

St. Andre noticed that the king appeared to avoid pronouncing the lady’s wedded 
name; and while his coolness lost no point of observation, he enthusiastically replied— 

“ Sire, she is as beautiful as Ninon d’Enclos was said to be. Look on those paintings, 
sire—the most gorgeous of them, with their lips of love and their eyes of fire, cannot 
equal her majestic loveliness.” 

“ Sang dieu /” cried the king, bending his dark, sombre eyes upon St. Andrd, “ but 
you talk like a lover, Monsieur l’Abb6, and not like one versed in the fathers.” 

“ Tine, sire,” replied St. Andre, in a little confusion; “ but she is beautiful as the Vir¬ 
gin ! Heaven forgive me,” he added, crossing himself devoutly, “ for the comparison.” 

u Ah!” murmured Louis, “ if I had but those around me who would love their king 
as much as he serves some of those that profess —profess /” repeated the monarch, with 
some bitterness, u I should not suffer all this frightful ennui , which eats me up like a 
canker.” 

“ Sire, you forget surely that I am here,” replied St. Andre, 
to will, and I perform.” 

2 L 




a Your majesty has but 


134 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


11 Know you not, evil counsellor of mine,” said Louis, 11 that there are certain things 
the execution of which may he grateful to a king, that he cannot name, nor give orders to 
he done.” 

“ Sire, I comprehend you,” said St. Andre; “ and I repeat that the sending of those 
two away was an act of the greatest wisdom. There is hut La Mouillon—he can be as 
serviceable as a waiting-woman. Those two were Demery’s firm friends.” 

11 And what would your wisdom do with La Mouillon ?” asked Louis. 

II Sire, it is his boast that he lived during the regency. Well, ma foi , it was an era of 
conquest, when love and beauty followed the triumphal chariot of the court.” 

II I hear it stated that the people speak very ill of this said regency. My uncle Philip 
was not precisely a very virtuous man,” and the king looked earnestly at the abbd. 

11 Sire, the regent was a man of the world, and a brilliant strategist with women. As 
for the people—pooh !” and with a gesture of the most intense contempt, he signified his 
disgust at the idea of considering their stricture as worthy regard. 

a Monsieur l’Abbe,” said the king, gravely, u my great-grandsire has even before now 
trembled before their menace.” 

“ Sire—sire,” cried the abbd, impatiently, “ do I not tell you that the people is merely 
a very ugly monster whose claws are cut ?” 

{< These husbands make a great outcry,” pursued the king, dreamily musing. 

11 The greater fools they,” returned St. Andre. u Do me the favour, sire, of telling 
why in Paris you have a Bastile, with devoted officers—why, in fact, you have the power 
of a lettre de cachet ?” 

The king started at the sound of this ominous and frightful word j but evidently he had 
got hold of an idea which he was loth to part with. The abbe pursued:— 

<£ Tell me, I repeat, why you, with such power, to which you have only to assent while 
I take the consequences—if, indeed, there be any,—you do not use it ?” 

Louis did not speak for a minute. 11 Let us revert back for a moment,” said he : “ just 
now you observed that Messire La Mouillon made it his boast that he belonged to the 
regency. Now, what is your inference ?” 

“-Sire,” replied the abbe, “1 would set him on the track of this lady, and-” 

u Bah !” returned the king, in a tone of disappointment, “ such a hollow paper scheme 
as that! Imbecile, do you think that a woman with a mind such as she should have, could 
be beckoned forward by the first waving of the hand of an old fop ?” 

u Sire, in a couple or three hours I could drive to Montmartre in a closed carriage.” 

“ Well, monsieur, proceed. You are luminous this morning,” and Louis leaned back 
in his chair. 

“ Sire,” continued the abbe, “ the Sieur Demery has been mixing up a little too freely 
in the politics of the day 5 he has been known to speak very frankly of your majesty, for¬ 
getting the respect that is due to your rank and lofty station ; he presumes, in an infamous 
article, to hint at the neglect which you show towards the queen.” The king here ground 





THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


135 


his teeth with rage—it was his weak point; but a generous sentiment coming to his 
relief, he said— 

u The gentleman may be belied.” 

“ Believe me, sire, it is not so. Permit me to go to Montmartre. If it is desired that a 
few hours’ incarceration in the Bastile clears away the wickedness of the writing he has 
amused himself with, I will, in the meantime, bring the lady here for protection.” 

“For protection!” ejaculated the king, amazed at the coolness and audacity of the 
abba’s proposal. 

“ Sire, you can converse with her—assure yourself from her own lips of her husband’s 
loyalty, and then it is but releasing both again if you perceive it necessary; for depend 
upon it, your majesty,” continued St. Andre, in a declamatory tone, “ that no false senti¬ 
ment of compassion should come between you and justiee, if such a man as Demery under¬ 
takes to rouse the discontented masses against you.” 

“ What you say, my dear abbe,” argued the king, “ is so very true that I resist no 
longer. Here is my ring—go.” 

u Sire, in the evening you will see the lady of the Sieur Queret Demery. A supper, 
let me observe to your majesty, with so fair a dame, is no bad thing after a fatiguing day.” 
And he quitted the chamber, leaving Louis alone with his reflections. 

The lovely afternoon was deepening into the evening, as a carriage, with the blinds 
down, was winding its way towards Montmartre. It contained the abbe St. Andrt;, and 
an officer of the police. Another carriage, at a long distance off, yet still keeping in sight, 
followed it. This contained four gens d'armes. On arriving at a sequestered spot, where 
none were to be seen loitering, the abbe descended, dressed in a manner which gave him 
a venerable appearance, and leisurely took his way up the gentle ascent, while the car¬ 
riages drove off to some other assigned place. 

Montmartre, a hundred years ago, was much more distant from Paris than it is now. 
It was in the heart of a rich and beautiful country; but the encroachments of the great 
growing monster—the city (for a city is a monster which always grows till a general 
plethora destroys it, or gives its shaky constitution a check) ; and it was one of the favour¬ 
ite places of resort to the Parisian cockneys, for the windmills on the summit, worked round 
by the fresh air, flashed gaily in the sunlight, while the whole woodland laughed in the 
repose and stillness of the slumbrous summer evening, bearing the listener nought but 
mysterious whispers of the air and the song of the bird in the brake. 

Striking from the road across a fine meadow, our abbd advanced towards a clump of 
trees, above which, on a green slope, peeped the white walls of Queret Demery’s elegant 
retreat; and as he came to the hedge-row which separated the garden from the field, he 
looked upon a scene of happiness and human joy such as even his callous heart was com¬ 
pelled to acknowledge. 

Beneath the umbrageous shade of a lofty walnut-tree, which grew out of the sward, on 
a green seat sat a gentleman and a lady ,* while a little boy, playing on the grass with a 


136 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


great dog, his joyous shouts of laughter pealing like a carol in the still evening, expressed 
the utter pleasure with which he resigned himself to his enjoyment. 

The gentleman was Queret Demery, one of the handsomest men who had ever been in 
the court of the fifteenth Louis ; and the lady, Madame Demery, was as fair and as charm¬ 
ingly beautiful as she ever was. The presence of the woman whose loveliness had sub¬ 
jected the abbd to such an indignity six years ago, roused all his evil passions. 

They were both seated before a little table, where a dish of strawberries, together with 
some rich cream, was placed. 

“ Pierre ! Pierre !—ho, Pierre !” cried out Demery, as a strong lad about twelve years 
old, with a brown, honest face, came from the back of the house at this bidding. 

“ Yes, monsieur!” said he, “ I am here.” 

“ Take little Philippe in, and let Nanette undress him and put him to bed,” said Demery. 

“ Ah ! my little Philippe, do you hear that ?” said Pierre, going up to the boy who was 
rolling with the dog on the grass: “ you are to go to bed.” 

“ O, yes, I hear it,” replied the gay child; “ but do you not see, my good Pierre, that 
this Bruno, here, does not mean to let me go?” and over he went again, screaming with 
laughter, as the dog with his great nose turned him over and over down the lawn. 

“ Monsieur Philippe, your father is calling you,” said Pierre; and the bright child 
suddenly rose up, and running to the chair where his father was seated, cried, “ Papa, did 
you call me ?” 

“ Yes, my dear child,” replied the father, taking him up in arms and kissing him, 
“ yes—it is time for you to go to rest. Will you have some more of these fine straw¬ 
berries ?” 

u If you please, papa," said he; and then rolling off his father’s knees, he clambered 
upon his mother’s lap, who taking him up in her arms, covered his face with kisses. 

u Oh! oh !” said Demery, jokingly, “you accept from me some strawberries, and you 
go to your mamma for them. Do you see, my little fellow, that is quite enough to make 
me dreadfully jealous ?” 

The child peeped laughingly from beneath his mother’s arms, and lisped out, “ Ah! 
well, then you shall give me the strawberries, and then mamma shall give me the cream.” 

“ You little diplomatist,” said the mother, with a laugh so sweet and gentle as to 
ring like fairy music. “ Is he not a charming fellow ?” she asked, delightedly, of her 
husband. 

“ Almost as beautiful as his mother,” was the reply. 

The cheeks of the wife were suffused with a rich glow of pleasure at these words. 
“ Flatterer,” said he, as he leaned towards her and took her hand, “ have you not forgotten 
the time you were at court yet ?” * 

" Ah • yes, almost,” was the answer, as he sat nearer to her, and passed his arm around 
her waist. “ I have forgotten all the heart-burning and jealousies of the time—the petty 
strifes—ambition without an aim—honour without an object. In this solitude I find that 





































































































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


137 


joy which will never be found in the vitiated atmosphere of a court; and you, my Marie?” 
be added, as he pressed her cheeks. 

“I?” she replied. 11 Here is my court and my ambition and she clasped the child 
closer to her bosom, who, tired with his play, now sank into a gentle sleep in her arms. 

For some time they sat silently gazing upon the purpling landscape in the distance, 
where the blue haze of twilight w T as struggling beneath the last golden smiles of the sunset; 
on the pretty cottages peeping from their greeneries afar off, listening the sounds of the dying 
day rose as the breezes descended to slumber in the meadow, little dreaming of the evil eyes 
that were watching them in the midst of their happiness ; little thinking of the violence 
which menaced their hearth. 

The child was asleep, when Fernery beckoning Pierre to him, placed him quietly in the 
stout arms of the good-tempered lad, who tenderly bore away the little Philippe as if he 
had been a treasure ; while, with hanging tongue and flashing eyes, the great dog looked 
benevolently on what was doing, and wagging his bushy tail, followed his young master 
in-doors, in order to take his usual place beside the child’s little bed, where in the morning 
he would greet Philippe’s laugh with a joyous bark. 

A few moments longer, while the shadows deepened, did the happy pair stand without, 
then hand in hand they went in the house, and Demery led his wife into an elegant and 
large apartment now lighted up. Everything within bore the stamp of refinement; there 
was the splendid harpsichord on one side—an instrument in that age supposed to be a 
triumph of art—and there, lying on it, were the operas of Lully and Gretry. There was a 
noble collection of classic authors, including the witty and sometimes licentious writers of 
the last epoch; and there were elegant paintings on the walls. Altogether the glowing 
light, radiating on the elegance of the apartment, completed a charming picture. 

“ Do you know, my lovely Marie,” said the fond husband, as his wife sat down to play 
him some pieces of music, “ that you are positively growing more young and beautiful 
every day?” 

u Ah! my Queret,” said Marie, carrying his hand to her lips with the most charming 
grace; “ it is you, rather, who still look the same as when you whispered to me those fond 
words of the happiness of home, on the bright day we were married.” 

“ Marie, thou art the magician,” replied he, bending towards her, and pressing his lips 
on her brow. 

At this instant a knock, so deep, loud, and startling, sounded at the outer door, as to 
make them both look at one another for an instant with surprise and dismay. The dead 
pause after, and the alarm which fell upon the young wife’s heart, and expressed itself in 
the working of her colourless face, roused Demery. 

a Oh! Queret,” she at last gasped out, “ what is the meaning of this ?” 

u I know not,” was his reply; “be not alarmed, dearest, it is nothing of any conse¬ 
quence.” 

They heard the door of the outer hall open; they heard a strong, deep voice making a 

2 M 


138 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


demand; and presently the heavy trampling of feet sounded in the passage. Demery, 
brave as he was, felt his lip tremble while his cheeks turned pale, and it was only the pre¬ 
sence of his wife that prevented him from obeying some singular instinct of preservation; 
for he felt assured that something in the garb of authority menaced him with that, from which 
his manhood might well quail. 

He had no time for further thought; the door of the chamber opened, and as the hus¬ 
band rose, and the wife clung closer to him, an officer and two or three of the armed police 
entered. The former, taking off his hat, with a grave and polite salutation to the lady, 
drew a paper from his breast, and looking upon it, named Queret Demery. 

“ I am he, monsieur,” said Demery, advancing; “ what is your pleasure with me?” 

u Monsieur will be good enough to follow me, then,” replied the officer. 

“ But, wherefore ? to what purpose ?” demanded Queret. 11 There must be some error 
in this.” 

u None whatever. Will monsieur be pleased to look upon this?” and the officer held 
the paper open towards him ; which, when he had glanced at, with a livid lip and a staring 
eye, in which horror and despair were expressed, the unhappy man murmured, 11 A lettre 
de cachet! May God protect me ! But what can this mean ?” 

The wife, on hearing these words, had fallen to the ground in a swoon; and while 
Nanette, a young girl who attended upon her, together with an aged w r oman, w r ere summoned 
to her assistance, the husband, with a gesture, whose despairing silence expressed a fright¬ 
ful agony, departed with the officer. In a few minutes after, with a soft smile and an 
insinuating air, the abbd glided into the chamber. 

It was between nine and ten o’clock, for the great bells had chimed the half-hour, and 
the king was walking uneasily to and fro in his splendid chamber, which opened to another 
of smaller size, but more costly, more luxuriously furnished. And while disagreeable 
memories came over Louis—memories of unnameable wrongs broke upon his peace, he 
could not shut from him some haunting idea that he was meditating a deep and villanous 
deed; a deed that his own tribunals would have repaid with condign punishment, while, 
he, the head of the law, was now virtually destroying it. 

Something black there was in the dim obscurity of his mind, which misgave him; 
which filled him with sad and melancholy thoughts, with a depression he could by no 
means shake off; something altogether funereal and deathly, and by no means in accord¬ 
ance with the festive preparations made within : and while he gazed round upon the superb 
furniture, the glowing walls on which the lustres flung such dazzling rays of light, the very 
deeps of his conscience broke open, and because he had not the moral courage to ask why 
or wherefore this was, his thoughts became to him like a hell! His voluptuous imaginings 
were gone, and nothing would bring them back ; and while he almost cursed the facility 
with which St. Andre had overcome his scruples, he began to be painfully anxious for his 
minister’s return. Thus had the weary hours crawled on since the abbe had left; for the 
specious, or rather unimportant offices with which he had burthened those whose presence 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


139 


he really feared would interfere with his plans ; these things had been soon disposed of, 
and the evening had thus been tediously whiled away without motive or object, for he 
could not attempt to amuse himself in any way. His uneasiness became after all horribly 
grotesque. 

He had thrown himself into a great arm-chair, heavily gilded and carved, after having 
drained a bowl of wine, seeking in that some stimulant for his jaded spirit; and while 
pressing his hands to his temples, as if to shut out another series of sinister ideas which 
grew upon him, he heard the soft steps of the abbd in the chamber, and the smooth, 
unctuous voice sounded softly in his ear— 

u Sire, I am returned.” 

The king started to his feet; at last he was free from those horrible thoughts. u Well 
—well,” he cried, u have you succeeded?” 

u Sire, if I undertake anything it is for that purpose,” replied the self-laudatory abbd ; 
u and as I am not known to fail-” 

But Louis broke this shortly off by demanding— 

“ The husband! this Demery! Where is he?” 

u Under the care of the governor of the Bastile by this time. My faith! sire, do but 
consider what despatch I have used;” and the abbd looked piteously fatigued. 

u Monsieur l’Abbe,” said the king, u do you know what you have left me here?” 

u Sire ! no ;” and St. Andrd looked about him. “ What, please your majesty, or whom 
have I left with you?” 

u Myself! ” replied Louis, in a tone which started the uncompromising intriguer. 

“ Sire,” said he, drily, at last, “ I trust you have been mightily amused. By my head, 
I began to fear from your tone that you had been annoyed.” 

11 1 begin to fear, do you mark me?” cried Louis, u that you are not an honest man. 
Does that disturb you ?” 

The abbe shrugged his shoulders with all the air of an ill-used man. “ I am a diplo¬ 
matist—I,” replied he, at length, “ and your majesty’s very humble servant; and I have 
fulfilled your majesty’s command.” 

u My command ! ” repeated Louis. “ Say rather your own insinuation was sanctioned 
by me.” 

“ Sire, you gave me this ring,” replied St. Andrd, showing it triumphantly. “ When 
your majesty deigns to confirm what you desire, it is generally by means of this signet. 
How, then, comes it in my possession?” 

Louis sighed. “ Where is the lady?” asked he, after a pause, during which his unea¬ 
siness was apparent. 

u Waiting in the antechamber, until your majesty may be pleased to see her,” replied 
the abbe. u I warn your majesty to be on your guard. It was natural for her to weep. 
My faith ! sire, I believe tears to be the natural ornament of woman. For my part, I am 
an abbd, and proof against these things; but when Yenus would move her hard-hearted 



140 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


lovers most, slie did it by means of the lachrymal font. 0, trust me,” he added, with a 
sardonic smile, “there is positively much virtue in tears.” 

“Call her. Stay!” and the king’s indecision was painfully evident. “Did she 
resist ? or did she come willingly ?” 

“ Most willingly; for I have played the part of the good father, and led her to your 
majesty’s feet to sue for her husband. Sire,” added the man, whose diabolic heart laughed 
at the noblest emotions of humanity, and whose callous soul was proof against the hideous 
picture his words that moment formed ; “ sire, the Regent was wont to fix a price upon the 
boons he granted to ladies.” 

“ Out upon you,” cried Louis, angrily ; “ out upon you ! you make me ashamed of the 
part I play.” 

St. Andre thought he had gone too far. “ I beseech you, sire,” he began, “ to forgive 
a jest; but in answer to your question, the lady came most willingly.” 

“To plead for her husband—to ask for mercy!” murmured the king; and for a 
moment his soul was roused; but his emotion changed again when he heard the abbd 
murmur in a mocking voice:— 

“ By the eleven thousand virgins of Cologne! but our good king is now going to 
recreate the old times of the Purists—the Huguenots will be as nothing to them. We 
shall be terribly virtuous now ; and I, who am blamed for not finding his majesty amuse¬ 
ment, shall be turned adrift with my empty portfolio to suck the air for food. Would I 
were an owl! The loveliest lady in the land will marvel at our monarch, who chooses to 
rival the continence of Scipio and he turned on his heel, and hummed an air from one 
of Scarron’s lively operas. 

A blush of shame mantled on the face of Louis. One cause of it was the consciousness 
of doing an evil action, the other was the ridicule of his minister, whom he feared ; and it 
was, after all, the more powerful motive. With an effort he was preparing to speak, when 
the abbd’s voice broke the silence: 

“ Sire, you have nothing to fear. If her loveliness, her charms, cannot conquer your 
reluctance to press your suit, by St. Mark! but I shall say, as a lady said on a former 
occasion, 1 my faith, the king of ours had a very cold heartand the abbe drew away to 
watch the changing features of the king more intently. 

“ Lead the lady in to us,” said Louis, resuming his seat. 

St. Andre, with an exulting smile, which was as malicious as it was scornful, left the 
chamber, and in a few moments led in a lady thickly veiled, who, the moment she beheld 
the king, cast the veil from her face, and rushing towards him, fell at his feet, crying, 
“ Mercy, sire! Oh, sire ! in the name of God ! mercy for my husband !” 

A pause followed, while she, clothed in her sublime beauty, heightened the more by 
the emotions which made her bosom pant with intense hopefulness, raised her deep, flash¬ 
ing eyes to the king’s face, who appeared wonderstruck, spell-bound, absolutely fascinated 
by that face. St. Andre also watched; and while he acknowledged the perfect loveliness 




THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


141 


of the woman, lie could have trampled her beauty and her virtue in the vilest soil of Paris, 

heaped upon her luckless head all the horror and degradation which only a man like him 
could have the soul to create. 

11 Leave the chamber,” said the king, in a low voice; and St. Andrd obeyed; then 
turning to Marie with a look and attitude full of a certain noble grace, he extended his 
hand towards her, and said— 

11 Pise, lady, rise ; master these emotions : with me you have nothing to fear.” 

“ Sire —sire ! ” she gasped out, without stirring, u mercy for my husband ! ” 

The king was struck with the intense tone of agony with which she spoke. Stretching 
out his hand to her, which she clutched with the grasp of one drowning, u Pise, madame,” 
said Louis, u and be under no apprehension for your husband, I beg.” 

“O, sire!” she cried, regardless of this weak attempt at consolation, 11 save my hus¬ 
band. You were kind to me and to him once, sire. Spare him—save him ! ” 

This reminiscence reminded Louis that he had the part of a gallant to perform; 
though he had sore misgivings upon the how he should act his part; for this beautiful 
woman’s prayers had greatly moved him. Shall we add that she had also aroused his 
jealousy! 

It was thus. He knew that the precious abbe was watching ; that if he failed in his 
atrocious amour, he, the king, would become the jest and the laughter of his own tool— 
become the butt of a man whose sarcasm, biting satire, whose keen, bitter, and mordacious 
bantering the monarch dreaded almost beyond a civil war. 

And he was jealous to see this woman, with her well-remembered features, so beautiful, 
so impassioned, pleading for another man. This was the cause of his sudden and painful 
revulsion. Those eyes of hers, had they kindled and lighted up with any flash of passion 
but that of the anxious wife, of the agonised mother, would have been to Louis a treasure, 
were it but to avert, to change their expression. 

u Madame, I give you my royal word,” said the monarch, somewhat pompously, 11 that 
your husband shall be safely and honourably used. Some little state business into which 
I will look on the morrow; meantime, as you are here, by St. Louis! you shall sup with 
me, madame.” 

11 Sire, I ask you to protect my husband,” she replied, with a quiet dignity, which stag¬ 
gered the king more than any display of violence could have done, u who has shed his 
blood to protect your person ; and you tell me that you will see to it to-morrow. Sire, I 
assert his innocence of all design or harm meditated or acted against you. I, his wife, 
implore of your kingly clemency to see to it at once.” 

“ Nay; but why should you be thus paining yourself. I give you my word that for 
one night he cannot suffer any further evil than the parting. Ah! charming Marie,” 
added the king, “ have you nothing to say to me after having so abruptly deserted my 
court for so long a time ? In truth, do you see, when you were gone I felt that there was 
a void-” 



142 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


“ Sire,” she convulsively added, while tottering towards him, “ I beg of you to grant 
me my request.” 

“ Nay, but this is unkind,” said Louis, with a gallant air, as he heard the abbd cough¬ 
ing. “ Fortunately I have a little supper within : will you share it with me?” 

But her face was growing deadly pale—her sobs became hysteric ;—with one attempt at 
calmness, so terrible, that Louis was frightened, she said solemnly— 

“ Sire, I ask you in the name of God ! for my child’s sake, and as you are a crowned 
king, to release my husband.” 

Louis was horror-struck,—the blood was bubbling over her lips. She fell, ere he could 
answer, in convulsions at his feet. 

After an absence of four hours the abbe once more returned to the king, whom he found 
in the room paler and more nervous than ever. 

“How is she?” was the question. “Do not tamper with me, sir,” added the 
king, sternly, “ or, thunder of heaven! you shall try the Bastile yourself. How is 
she?” 

“ She was seized with the most violent spasms, sire ; but I have left a talented physi¬ 
cian with her.” Like a mean cowardly reptile as he was, he dreaded what he had done ; 
but his revenge was working— that was something. 

“ You will see that every attention is paid to her ; and that while this is done, secrecy 
is kept in the matter.” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ Let Monsieur Demery be released in the morning,” continued Louis. 

“ Sire, I beg of you to consider-” 

“ What?” 

“ That if he be released now, and find his wife ill—and—inquire,—you cannot compel 
—pardon me for saying so—you cannot compel such silence as may leave you forgetful¬ 
ness, or he peace.” 

“ Perhaps you are right.” The cold, severe tone in which Louis spoke, destroyed the 
other newly-formed plan of the abbe for ever 5 but he swore in his soul that his revenge 
should therefore be complete. 

“ Within the week,” continued the king, “ let him be released. In the meantime, here 
is my signature for that purpose and he affixed his name to a piece of paper, and hastily 
scribbling a few lines on another, he said, “ See that these are attended to, on your peril, 
and never let me hear of the matter more.” 

“ Sire, you shall not,” was the reply; and he kept his word,—for Louis dared not ask, 
and the abbe had no further occasion to speak. Leaving Paris the next day to dissipate 
the memory of this shocking affair, the king forgot it. St. Andre never sent the order foi 
Demery’s release, and on the second night the lady died raving mad! thus far delighting 
the malignant and astute abb6, though his risk was great, yet the desire of completing his 
revenge was greater; and while Nanette, and Pierre, and an old woman, took care of the 



THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


143 


s 


child and the house, the funeral was so private that none knew the matter, and soon after 
the little that was bruited of this sad affair died away. 

# * * # # 

It was in the middle of July, in the year 1789, that a fine, athletic, middle-aged man, 
his hair slightly tinged with grey, rushed out of a pretty road-side cottage, which, with its 
jasmine porch and ivied roof, was one of the few remaining specimens of rustic beauty 
belonging to the last age. It lay on the road to Montmartre, close, in fact, to the hand¬ 
some edifice where dwelt the present owner, Philippe Demery. 

This bluff, fresh-looking fellow, half-laughing and half-annoyed, was escaping a pursuit; 
for the enemy appeared soon after in the shape of a buxom woman. They were the boy 
and the girl we find in the first part of our story living with Queret Demery, and were 
respectively called Pierre and Nanette. 

Seizing him by the short coat-skirts ere he had got out of the garden, with a somewhat 
strong arm, she pulled him back, and said— 

11 Monsieur Pierre, my good husband, I wish to know where you are going in such a 
hurry, and why you are going away on this day most of all, being our master, Monsieur 
Philippe’s, fete-day?” 

“Thunder, woman!” cried Pierre, stoutly, though in somewhat of latent awe of his 
handsome helpmate, u when the whole world is roused up, and I hear the voices of those in 
the prison crying to be freed, will you keep me at home ?” 

“ Yes—yes. I tell you, wicked one! I cannot let you go.” 

“ By what right do you detain me, madame ?” 

“ Oh ! oh !” laughed Nanette, “ by what right, eh ? I will tell you : by the rights of 
woman. 

“ By the rights of a woman’s obstinacy, I think,” muttered Pierre. “ I tell you all 
Paris is aroused, as you have heard, and the Bastile will come down ; ay, to-day, and all 
the poor prisoners will be let out.” 

“ Well, let them. You are out, and that is sufficient for me,” was the rejoinder. 

11 Stuff! my little Nanette. Don’t you know that both you and I have eaten the bread 
of old Demery ?” 

“ Yes, I do,” replied Nanette ; “ and will you show your gratitude to them by running 
away when you ought to be on the spot here with Monsieur Philippe, and with Madame 
Marie his wife, and with little Philippe, their son ?” 

“ I tell you,” retorted Pierre, impatiently, “ that I want to show my gratitude to them.’ 

“ How, my friend Pierre—explain that?” and Nanette placed herself in a position to 
listen ; but it was between Pierre and the garden-gate. 

“ By releasing Philippe’s father from prison—is not that something, eh ? ’ ejaculated 
Pierre. “ To tell the old man, who has been whitening his head there for more than twenty 
years,” cried the enthusiastic Pierre ; “ see you, my kind old master, I restore you to your 
liberty—to your son—to your little grandson, who will play and prattle round your feet; 


144 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


to show him,” continued the excited Frenchman, “ how well 1 have kept his farm while 
his son was a child; to account for all, like an honest steward. Thousand thunders! will 
you let me go now ?” 

“ But I want to know more,” said Nanette. 

“ Of course—of course,” cried Pierre, in a kind of comical despair. “ How can I tell 
you more ? Have I not given you nearly twenty years of a black history in few words ? 
Have you forgotten your good lady’s death ? ” 

“ No—no,” cried Nanette, shuddering : “ oh ! Holy Virgin ! no.” 

“ Would I were in Paris,” exclaimed Pierre. “ Think, my little Nanette, what plea¬ 
sure I shall have if I can bring the old man to his house, and say, 1 Philippe, embrace your 
father! Queret Hcmery, embrace your son,—embrace your daughter,—embrace your 
child, and command me to do anything.’ Hein !” ejaculated the volatile Pierre, “ I could 
jump to the top of Notre Dame ! Will you let me go ?” 

“ Well, I don’t know,” replied Nanette, half relenting. “ Stop! How, in the mean¬ 
time, do you know that the old man is not dead ?” 

“ How do I know? hah !” said Pierre, scornfully ; “ why I do know—I feel that—in 
fact, do you see, my little wife, I won't know that he is dead—there now; besides, I know 
one of the prison officers, and he says-” 

“ Well,” exclaimed Nanette, with a sort of coquettish impatience, “ and what does he 
say?” 

“ Why,” replied Pierre, “ he says that—that—he says—nothing, blessed Mary ! how 
you worry one. Hark to me: do you go to Monsieur Philippe’s house, say that I am gone 
to Paris ; but not a word of what business I am on. I will, please heaven, return in the 
course of the day, and bring him with me.” 

“ But if you don't bring him ?” 

“Eh! eh! not bring him ? ” shouted Pierre, beginning to frown. “Well, if I don’t 
bring him,—truly you drive one into corners so—nay, I must. Here he altered his tone 
and manner into that of a grave sternness, and said, “ Hark you, Nanette, my wife; I shall 
grow angry for the first time if you hold me longer. I will go. Gratitude, duty, HONOUR 
bids me go! ” 

“ Go, Pierre,” said Nanette, suddenly releasing him, and heartily kissing him on both 
cheeks ; “ go, Pierre, and I will pray for your success.” 

“ That’s my pretty Nanette,” cried the rejoicing Pierre, returning her salute; and in 
another moment he was on the road, leaving Nanette gazing with a kind of proud admira¬ 
tion after him. 

* * & * * 

The last day of that pile of grim, hoar towers was come, as the Bastile stormers, grim 
blouse-clad men, with heroic brows, stern, fierce faces, and flashing eyes, gathered out of 
the faubourgs. The faubourg St. Antoine, led by the herculean brewer, was pouring out 
its strong-handed thousands first; and then came to their aid, swelling the human tide, the 



THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


145 


myriads of St. Marcel and of the Marais,—those terrible men whom they of the fouiteenth 
Louis, and they of the regency drove with their gilded carriages into the street kennels, and 
so called them canaille. Aha! but this dirty canaille, this low and proletarian herd of poor 
grimed artizans were about to cleanse themselves this day—ay in blood! in the red smoking 
blood of the highest, noblest, and best of the land: evil are the times when the innocent 
cannot be separated from the guilty. 

Cannon sounded distantly afar, the steeples rocked and quivered with the fierce clangour 
of the tocsin. From the barribre de Vincennes, to the barribre of Neuilly, the raging bells 
echoed and re-echoed; and the roar of human voices, like the roar of the great sea, mingled 
in the furious cry, “ Down with the Bastile ! ” 

At last the fire-sea that had been gathering, surging, aloft in the sky for many a day, 
and growing to a head, began to belch forth under the lurid canopy, now growing redder, 
ruddier; and the multitudinous shoutings of men rose in reverberation against the heaven, 
that loomed like a gigantic dome of shining brass above their heads ; and still the burthen 
of that precursor of other falls more fatal arose, “ Down with the Bastile ! ” 

We have said these men came from the faubourgs of Paris,—men who worked heavily, 
and hardily enough, God knows ; for these quarters were the grim nurseries of the artizan 
and the mechanic, with their huge Cyclops arms brandishing fearful weapons. On—on, to 
the great square! Shout for liberty !—but first, “ Down with the Bastile! ” 

There is an army at Versailles, under the command of Marshal Broglio. While the 
crafty and politic Duke of Orleans had spared no money to seduce the troops, he who was 
called Philip Ejalite , and father to Louis-Philippe—the tiers etat (the third estate), of the 
nation, have made themselves a National Assembly, and they look from beneath their lower¬ 
ing brows, and threaten the world ; but the Bastile must come down! 

“ Hold on, De Launay ! Governor of the Bastile, hug thyself in thy ashlar fastnesses ; 
let no firing of thine slake, for slay fast as thou wilt, the hydra-headed is let loose; and each 
man stands in the bloody gap a perfect Leonidas, while grape and ball rain down downward, 
and some portion of the walls totter and shake. “ Hurrah! Down with the Bastile ! ” 

In clouds of fire and smoke go the dull government measures of Maurepas, Turgot, and 
Malesherbes, and many others, one after the other : they have been found worth nothing— 
worse than nothing. The Reign of Terror dawns! What think you of it, now, day- 
dreamers, and you men of expediency ? Necker and Colonne have failed; for Mirabeau 
has uplifted his gigantic voice, has sworn like a voice from another Apocalypse, that these 
things shall be no longer. And lo! the fearful cry, “Down with the Bastile!” is the 
result. 

At nine in the morning the cry began, it deepened, strengthened ; it gathered men, arms, 
and enthusiasm.—And De Launay gives fire at last. 

On the great drawbridge, which had been let down for Thuriot, some of the besiegers 
had got footing on the outer walls, hovering over the ditch. The fray was getting close, 
bloody, furious. Sheetedm flame, the grim towers stood like the embodiment of hardened, 

2 0 


146 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


time-bloated tyranny. Cold, merciless, and white, they gleamed through the smoke in the 
vivid rendings of fire; and leading on a band of noble fellows, from the faubourg Mont¬ 
martre, of Poissonihre, and of St. Denis, is our friend Pierre, half-clothed in a dragoon’s 
uniform. He too is on the outer walls. The drawbridges, one by one, fall—the people 
crowd, hammer and axe in hand, and they thunder at the outer gates as if to waken up the 
dead men, who, one after the other, for ages have been placed in that horrible tomb. 

Hurrah! the gates are open—the Bastile is taken—the people flock in almost ere it be 
forced—they release the prisoners,—and among the first to enter is Pierre. 

Masses enter and re-enter—the firing is slackened, and among the crowd that came over 
the great bridge from the gateway, was an old man, tottering and weak, with a white beard 
and a venerable aspect,—he was led by two or three of the fighting men, who with their 
helpless prize were as tender as women. 

a Take your freedom and hasten hence,” cried one. 

u Poor old man, the din confounds him ! ” exclaimed another. u Comrade, give me your 
flask. So—so! ” he added, as he gave him a reviving draught; a better now.” 

11 Where am I ? ” said Demery, for it was he, the old prisoner of so many years. 
u What shines so in my face ?—what dreadful noises are ringing in my ears ? Confusion 
in place of the old dead quiet. Friends, why have you disturbed me?” he added, in a 
querulous and vexed tone. 

u What a question ! ” ejaculated a sturdy smith, begrimed with sweat and blood, and 
the powder of battle, who was resting on his musket. u How terrible must be that fate 
w'hen the prison has become a home.” 

u Rejoice, friend,” said another, touching him kindly on the arm : 11 you are out of the 
Bastile! ” 

u Oh! ” ejaculated Demery, a my home ! Stay ! tell me what year is this ? ” 

u In the Calendar,” replied a mountain man, 11 it is 1789 ; but in the Republic it is the 
year-” 

Demery was rapidly counting by his lips and fingers, his eyes dilated with a mixture of 
amazement and affright, and he shrieked out, 11 My home !—my home!—for more than 
twenty years my home! ” 

The crowd recoiled from him with astonishment: u Twenty years ! ” they ejaculated, 
while murmurs of amazement spread around. 

u Ay, friends,” replied Demery, u twenty years ! I notched on sticks the slow hours of 
my imprisonment till they have amounted to that:—I was even minute in my calculation. 
It has become to my weakened sense even stupendous,” said the old man, his voice trembling, 
as he endeavoured by the weakened volume of his voice to express this fearful amount of 
time spent in a prison ; “ and behold you there—it had become my home,—you have made 
it desolate, roofless, smouldering! it is cruel of you. Where shall I find shelter now? ” 
and laying his wrinkled hands over his face, he wept. 

The men around him were touched to the soul; their manhood was attacked violently 



THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


147 


by this old man’s misery. a Go to your friends : seek them,” said one. 11 Come, cheer up 
—cheer up.” 

11 Friends friends! ” repeated Demery. u Oh ! friends die in the course of twenty 
years. A\ horn can I hope to see? who is king now? ” he suddenly demanded. u Who is 
king now, in France? ” 

11 Louis XVI. was our king,” exclaimed one : but the sentence was not complete. 

The old man clasped his hands in despair; and one of them whispered to him, 11 Get 
hence, old man, as quickly as possible,—there is danger around us :—this place affords 
shelter for the moment; but, before long, perhaps a shower of musket balls will stop the 
street. You are at liberty !—free ! Do you hear that ? ” 

11 Free !—liberty! ” echoed he. u Grand words those—great words ! they make my 
heart throb again : dim, inarticulate feelings are roused by them. Once I knew what they 
meant. They remind me,” continued he, kindling into rapid vehemence, “ of the green 
meadows, with the great sun smiling on the streams, and gentle breezes floating over the 
grass, and little children playing ;” when all at once, clasping his grey head in anguish, he 
cried out, u My child !—my child ! ” 

u What can he mean?” asked the wonder-stricken men one of another, to whom this 
scene, in the half-hour’s peace that fell on that quiet nook, had an absorbing interest. 

u That I used to walk with by the streams, on the mornings of May,” continued he, 
u listening to the lark in the sky, or watching the mill sails on the summit, when I planted 
my foot strongly. Alas ! I must be very old—very old now! ” and he wept afresh. 

11 Pray, good old man,” pressed another, 11 Seek some home. Here is a little money ; ” 
and the labourer pressed some few coins into his hand; but the passionless limb let it fall again. 

u Home ! home! ” he ejaculated, gazing into the vacant air, u that is a word from some 
lost language; yet what magic ! Oh! that I could return ;” and he clasped his thin hands 
together. “ Ah ! that—that,” pointing to his old prison, 11 was my home—you have 
destroyed it, and left my old head shelterless. Cruel—cruel! Where shall I go? Stay! ” 
and drawing his hands across his brow, while a solemnity of tone, language, and manner 
fell upon him, which thrilled the stern but kind hearts of those who were near. u Fight! 
I shall go home soon—I shall reach home at last. Let us thank God that man is not 
immortal, here at least;—for I feel that to die is something to be happy. Yes—yes—yes! 
I shall reach home at last—my quiet, peaceful home;” and he tottered feebly away. 

In the meantime, while this little episode was being played apart, there was still firing, 
and fighting, and confusion, and slaughter going forward. Pierre was not idle; he was in 
and out of the dungeons, seeking in every corner among the prisoners ; but among the many 
there he saw not his old master. 

It may be asked by the reader, that supposing he had seen him, how was he to know 
him, changed as he must be—worn—weak—debilitated—old ? how was Pierre to collapse 
twenty years into the space between a glance and a recognition,—if such question may be 
logically put ? 


148 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


We answer with Pierre himself: he would have known him by instinct—by intuition. 

As Pierre jostled among the crowd in the lobbies of the prison, he picked up a scrap of 
paper, and read the following upon it. 

il If, for my consolation, Monseigneur would grant me-that I could hear news of my 

dear wife (and child), were it only her name on a card to show that she is still alive, it were 
the greatest consolation that I could receive; and I should for ever bless the greatness of 
Monseigneur. “Queret Demery.” 

Pierre started at first as if he had been shot—then his eyes filled with tears, so that lie 
could peruse the document no further. 

It spoke of his wife, and he (Pierre) knew well that no word had ever been breathed to 
the old man about her. The abbe St. Andre, who survived Louis, kept his secret well. 
The prisoner was allowed to write, but no letters were ever delivered; this was to the 
Dauphin; but the Dauphin, since then king, had never seen, heard, or known aught of the 
matter. The unhappy man, in full strength of his proud mental and physical faculties, 
loving and beloved, with such ties to bind him to life, had been literally buried alive ! 

By the few rapid incoherent questions which Pierre asked, he was given to understand 
that an old man, who had told the people that released him that he had been twenty years 
in prison, had some time ago gone by the more peaceable quarters. 

On hearing this, Pierre, by paths best known to himself, made his way (having done 
the chief duty of the day), to the barriere, and it was long past noon as he retraced his 
way to Montmartre. 


Jpctc. 

Montmartre was within the sound of the cannonading at the Bastile,—in fact, while 
terror and death were grappling men by the throat, at Montmartre there was held in 
Philippe Demery’s little garden a rustic fete. The guests consisted of a few neighbours, 
some of the farm-servants and labourers. It was an annual and long anticipated event, 
and for that reason, unless the fighting had been carried as far as Montmartre, the fete 
would have been held,—in fact, the idea of putting it off was an unheard-of thing. 

It was a pleasant sight to behold the happy faces—for, by this time, a quietness had 
fallen over Paris, and the guests gave way to hilarity. Beneath the old walnut-tree, on 
the old seat, was Philippe and his wife, on the grass two or three couple were dancing to 
the sound of a pipe and tabor, while a table held a supply of refreshments, such as fruits, 
cream, meats, wine, and unknown condiments—all the more appreciated by the guests, 
as they were prepared by the young and beautiful mistress of the house herself. 

While Demery himself, with a gravity in his eye and a smile on his lips, was moving 
among them with a kind word to one, a greeting to another, a grasp of the hand to a third, 
an invitation to a fourth to pledge him, and so on, he could not help feeling some little 



THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


149 


anxiety regarding tlie events at Paris. But the presence of Madame Demery among the 
rustics gave a turn to the conversation, and soon, in the lively and volatile gaiety of their 
natures, combined with the rustic festivity they had entered into, they forgot Paris and all 
therein—merely marvelling wherefore Pierre and Nanette were not among them, though 
Philippe had an idea that his steward had gone with the insurgents, but on that score he 
held his peace. 

“ Good day to you, madame—good Madame Marie,” exclaimed the kind peasants, their 
eyes sparkling with pleasure ; “ we have enjoyed ourselves very much, thanks to you.” 

11 1 thank you all for coming to our little fete,” replied Marie, going to the women and 
the children, smiling and bestowing a word here and there. 

u We have long had the happiness, madame,” said another, “ of sharing in your friend¬ 
ship, and that of Monsieur Demery. You have our esteem and respect, madame.” 

11 Thanks, my good friends, thanks,” was the reply ; and once more the pipe and tabor 
struck up, and the rustic dance, in which Demery and his wife joined, was begun with 
fresh zest. 

11 Well and merrily danced,” cried Demery, when it was ended. u Come, friends, taste 
our cakes and wine. So ho ! and where is my little Philippe going now ?” he asked, as a 
beautiful boy, about eight years of age, in his graceful and fanciful dress, holding in his 
hand a basket of flowers, came from the house. 

u I am going to strew these flowers, you know, papa,” replied the boy, showing them. 
“ They are for my grandmother’s grave : it makes the place look so beautiful, so quiet, and 
so happy. So, adieu! papa—adieu for a short time, dear mamma,” added he, going up 
to them both, and kissing them. 

“ I am almost afraid to let him go alone to-day,” said the mother, in a low, anxious 
tone to her husband. 

u There is nothing to fear,” was his reply. u I know it would break his heart to pre¬ 
vent him, and the old church is just in sight; besides, he will not be long—will you, my 
little Philippe ?” added he, turning to the child. “ Your mamma wishes you to make 
haste.” 

u O yes, certainly, I will make all possible haste. Don’t be afraid of that,” said the 
little fellow ; and amidst the smiles and embraces of the good-hearted guests, he departed; 
and some time after, when the guests had drunk their last parting glass to the health of 
Monsieur and Madame Demery, these two latter were left alone. 

The afternoon was cloudless, and the weather beautiful. Absorbed in the scene, they 
spoke no word to each other, and were only roused up from their pleasant reverie by the 
entrance of Nanette, who, ruddy from exertion, and somewhat breathless from haste, stood 
blushing and panting before them. 

“ Why, Nanette !” exclaimed Philippe, starting, “ what is the matter with you that 
you look so excited ? Sit down—sit down to recover yourself; and Marie, my love, ’ 
added he, addressing his wife, “give our gool Nanette a glass of wine.” 

2 P 


150 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


Nanette having obeyed Philippe’s direction, took the wine, and said in an embarrassed 
manner— 

“ Monsieur and Madame, I entreat of you both to pardon me.” 

“ Pardon you !” exclaimed Demery, “ wherefore ?” 

“ First, monsieur, for being absent from your fete, which I have attended for so many 
years, you knotv—as I always promise myself a pleasure in it—and also,” pursued Nanette, 
“ I have partly disobeyed my husband ; but, in truth, I did not know what to do.” 

“ What is it that you mean?” demanded Philippe, somewhat surprised at her embar¬ 
rassment. 

“ It is something, monsieur !” she replied, “ altogether extraordinary, and surprising— 
and—and, in truth, I hardly know how to go on.” 

“ Pray, for heaven’s sake, proceed, I beseech you !” said Demery, anxiously. “ You 
have roused my curiosity to a most painful height.” 

“ Well, monsieur,” she resumed, “ this morning my husband went to Paris.” 

“ To Paris ? Yes, yes,” repeated Philippe, with increased impatience. 

“ And he bade me come here to the fete; but he also forbade me to say a word on the 
business he had departed upon. Well, monsieur, I did not know what to do.” 

“ Why ?—was this business then so particular ? Does it interest me ?” 

“ Oh yes, monsieur,” she replied; “ for—but I must not yet anticipate—I did not 
know how to be silent—I have had it on the tip of my tongue the whole morning, and I 
cannot keep it from you any longer.” 

“ Speak, then—speak !” said Marie ; “ you alarm me, my good Nanette.” 

“ Oh, it is nothing to be alarmed at, I assure you, madame,” said Nanette. “ It is 
quite a contrary matter, and ought to give you great joy, for it concerns monsieur’s father.” 

“ My father! ” ejaculated Demery. 

“ Yes, monsieur. To-day the men of Paris have attacked the Bastile, and they were to 
free all the prisoners-” 

“ Free the prisoners!” cried Philippe : “ but my father is dead years ago.” 

“Monsieur!” replied the good woman, “ Pierre says that your father is not dead, but 
that he was a prisoner; and he went there purposely to bring him back to you,—and now 
my secret is told,” added Nanette, giving a sigh of relief; “ and I feel all the better for 
having got rid of it.” 

“ Great heaven ! ” cried Philippe, turning pale, “ if this should be true, now !” 

“ It is true, monsieur—believe it,” replied Nanette. “ I am certain Pierre would not say 
so if he had not good grounds to count upon it; for it would be a cruel thing, monsieur, 
would it not,” continued the excited wife, “ if he were to raise hopes to be so dreadfully 
destroyed ?” 

“ It would, indeed,” said Marie. “Oh! husband, if this be so, our happiness will be 
complete.” 

“ God grant it,” was the fervent prayer of Philippe; “ but it is almost too good to hope 



THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


151 


it all; and yet, if so, lie must have passed the last twenty years in prison. It is frightful 
to think of it,” he added, with a shudder. 

It was now afternoon, and the power of the sun was weakened. There was a still, 
gentle hum in the blue transparent air, and through the moveless branches of the great trees, 
which cast a cool shade below, came the sunshine,—while the soft, murmuring breeze waved 
the grass to and fro, till the sunlight played in golden undulations upon the emerald sward. 

The scene was a churchyard; the site of the old church of Montmartre, with its 
short, ivy-mantled tower of rare Norman architecture, situated half-way up the summit. 
Perhaps there was not so picturesque a spot to be found for many and many a league. The 
building itself had sunken a little till it seemed just to nestle warmly in the mossy nook; 
and all its buttresses, towers, and irregular projections, were covered with ivy and creeping- 
plants without end,—among which, hundreds of little tiny birds had built their nests. 

Over the grey tower, through the trees, far beyond the limes and the myrtles, the flower- 
gardens and the little farms on the slope, were the white windmills; but their sails moved 
sluggishly, for the breeze was also idle, and only breathed softly by them. Below lay 
Paris, extended like a great monster right and left; on the other side, again, the champaign 
opened out like a green and golden panorama, bounded only by the purple horizon. 

While the sun was, as we said, declining, about this time there walked slowly and pain¬ 
fully into the churchyard, an old, feeble man—Queret Demery,—and facing the landscape 
and the setting sun, his back turned to Paris, he sat down upon an old gravestone; and 
while he rested he fell into a reverie. 

Strange and wondrous was this reverie to the time-worn man; for the past came to him, 
and it took a grotesque and exaggerated aspect. There was the court, with king and 
courtiers, in all their pomp of state and pride of heart; there was martial music and the 
trampling of feet in unison to stir his soul,—and then a darkness fell over him, that gave a 
new turn to the tumultuous thoughts which struggled, dimly and mistily, into life. He saw 
his little garden in the evening, and his child playing on the green ; lie heard the voice of 
his wife, and felt her sweet breath on his brow,—but it w T as only the rush of the breeze; he 
saw the officer bearing the fatal warrant; he beheld the gigantic portals of the Bastile, and 
he shuddered. 

Soon these recollections passed away also, and he lifted up his eyes and looked around: 
the charming beauty of the spot soothed him, and half murmuring to himself,— 

u Ah ! how lovely is this,” he said. u I feel the warm air folding me around ; but my 
dim eyes cannot behold in the distance the pleasant villages and fields ; and yet they must 
be there. The great sun fills the world, and I hear the murmuring of waters, and the birds 
singing far overhead. And what is yonder?” he added, as he shaded his eyes with his 
hand. u A windmill! the great flashing wings pass and repass. I know that old familiar 
sound, well: this must be Montmartre—Montmartre ! ” he repeated, as if to prevent its 
name slipping his memory. u How peaceful is all! The air sleeps now, and all is quiet— 
solemn. Blessed be God for the sweet calm of nature! it soothes me. A here am I?” 


152 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


continued lie, looking around him. “ This must be a churchyard,—aye, I have got to my 
resting-place at last, then: the old man is near his home. It is pleasant—very pleasant;” 
and he smiled with an almost childish delight, as leaning on his stick, he once more looked 
around, and afterwards fell into abstraction. 

During this time little Philippe Demery, with his basket of flowers, had unobserving and 
unobserved, entered the churchyard also, his bright face beaming with joy and delight—the 
ruddy hues of health glowing in the rich bloom on his cheeks. As he laid dow r n his flowers, 
he looked up and said,— 

“ Oh, what a beautiful day—and I am so warm: how the breeze fans my forehead! I 
should like to know what it says as it goes sweeping by. I declare,” he added, kneeling 
down over his flowers and examining them, “ I declare that they grow more beautiful than 
ever : the moment I enter here, they seem to become more fragrant and fresh. Now, then, 
to strew them! ” and he arose and gazed wonderingly into the sky above him, as some 
mysterious thought filled his young soul. “ I wonder if my grandmother is looking down 
from that clear heaven upon me: I wish she were. They told me she was so beautiful, and 
she must be so by the great picture that’s at home. They say that there are angels,” he 
continued, half musing, “up above, over head. Oh!” added he, clasping his hands with an 
earnest delight, “ if I could only see them, just for one moment: if my grandmother could 
but know, how I would love her! ” he then sat down once more beside his basket to pursue 
his thoughts. “ If she could only hear me say, 1 Dear grandmother, will you love little 
Philippe ? ’ Yet, it is very strange, they tell me that she sleeps here, in this ground ; I am 
sure I don’t think it can be at all pleasant to lie in the darkness here, as to go chasing the 
butterflies through the grass, or to pluck flowers—or make caps of reeds in the meadows—or 
to hear the sound of the mills going round and round. Well, I must begin my task, because 
I promised to return again very soon ; ” and starting to his feet, basket in hand, he made a 
few steps forward, when his eye fell suddenly upon the reverend face of old Demery, who 
still dreamingly sat upon the grave. 

“ Dear me,” said the boy, lialf-aloud, looking upon him, “what a nice-looking old gen¬ 
tleman ; but how very sad he seems—he does not see me. I wonder what he can want 
here. He has no flowers,” added the child ; “ but I’ll speak to him and going up to the 
aged Demery, with an endearing action the boy laid his hand on his knee, and said, “ Sir 
—sir!” 

Demeiy started from his reverie, and ejaculated “Yes—yes, 1 am coming soon—soon— 
home soon! ” 

“ Sir,” began the child, “ if you wish to strew some flowers upon one of these graves, 1 
will give you a few of mine. Look, they are all fresh gathered—pray do take some.” 

“ Very beautiful,” moaned Demery, gazing vacantly upon him. “ Who spoke? Was 
it you, my child?” 

“ Yes, sir,” replied Philippe : “ I offered you some of my flowers, if you wanted any.” 

“ Alas! my child,” said Demery, “ I have none to strew flowers for.” 



I 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 153 

a No!” ejaculated the boy, with surprise ; “ well, that is a pity.” Then, as if address¬ 
ing himself, he added, u What a pleasure he must lose when he has no one sleeping here to 
bring spring and summer flowers to !” 

u A beautiful child,” repeated old Demery,—stroking his fair, curly head,—with a 
tender, sweet voice. Then, as he gazed upon him, he added, with a new emotion, 11 How 
strange—how beautiful—those eyes—that face—that hair ! they affect me like a spell; in 
truth, this is most wonderful. Twenty different feelings fill my breast—begin to move my 
heart. I thought it had been withered by this time ; ” and he dropped his face in his hands. 

“ Are you unwell, sir?” asked, tlxe young Philippe, with an affectionate interest. 

u No—no, my child,” replied the old man, rallying a little, and embracing the boy’s 
bright head ; “ but I am old and feeble. Ah ! what contrast is here,” continued he, play¬ 
ing with the fair hair,—“ what contrast between the smooth, glossy curls, and the grey hair, 
—between the clear eyes before me, and the dim orbs through which I can but faintly see! 
The young child stands on the threshold of life, the radiant shape of the hopeful and the 
beautiful beckoning him to follow,—and here am I, an old man, looking on the backward 
path. His very presence would make the pulses of nature’s vast heart beat the quicker.” 

“ Can I do anything for you, sir ?” asked the child, who seemed to be much struck by 
Demery’s presence, and drawn to him by a singular impulse. 

“ Thanks, my little fellow,—no,” was the answer ; “ but I love to hear you prattle. I 
have not lost so much as I began to fear I had.” 

“ You are very tired, are you not, sir ?” pursued Philippe. u You appear so.” 

“ Yes—yes ; but old men soon tire. I am resting myself. Where ?—what is this?” 

u This is a grave, sir,” was the low response of the child, who seemed a little awe¬ 
struck by the question. 

11 A grave !” ejaculated Demery. u Whose?” 

11 My grandmother’s, sir,” replied Philippe. 

“ Indeed ! and so I have been resting on the silent couch of one gone long before me. 
The slumberer is calm below ;—and you, my child,” asked Demery, “what do you do here?” 

11 I am come to strew flowers upon it,” said the child. 

“ That is good, very good of you, my fair boy.” 

“ I come through the bright summer,” said Philippe, “ and I scarcely miss a day. 0, 
I love to place these around it,—it makes me smile to myself; and sometimes I look into 
the air when I have done, as if I could see a face looking down upon me ; but I am not 
sure,” added he, thoughtfully, “ that I have seen any, though I may fancy so.” 

11 Such a task,” murmured Demery, “ would change deformity into beauty. How gra¬ 
cious does such an act look in a child like this! 0, you are quite right to love her so well, 
your dear grandmother ; quite right to make this place look like a bower, a garden ; quite 
right to make yourself the guardian of this sacred dust. She must have loved you dearly. 

“ I never saw her,” said the boy, mournfully. “ I should like to see her ; I have dreams 
of her j and, oh !” added the child, with kindling eyes, “ her beauty dazzles me. 

2 Q 


154 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


“ Fine sleep,” said the old man, “ pure heart—pure life ; no wonder such dreams come. 
Bless thee, child, bless thee!” and he caressed Philippe, who nestled in his bosom. 

u How kind you are, sir,” said the boy. “ I never saw you before, and yet I love you 
already. May I love you?” added he, gazing wistfully into Demery’s face. 

11 Thank heaven for this hour,” said the old prisoner. “ Yes, child, love me, and I will 
love you. Old men always love children ; they are pleased to behold what fine creatures 
they themselves once were.” 

“ I am so happy now, I declare,” said Philippe, beginning to strew his flowers. 
“ There—is not that pretty ? Now I have done. Will you come with me ”—and he took 
his hand—“ to my papa and mamma ? They are kind to every one, and they will be so 
glad to see you. Come! ” 

“1 know it—I am sure of it,” said Demery ; and as he stood up, he turned his face and 
beheld the inscription on the stone at the head of the grave. His eyes were fixed on it 
while his whole frame shook. Pointing to it with a palsied hand, he cried, “ Am I awake ? 
—do I dream ? That name, child—tell me that name—whose is it ?” 

“ Marie Demery,” said the boy, reading it softly to him. 

“ My wife’s !—my wife’s !” and overpowered he sank on his knees, with clasped hands 
and streaming eyes, before it. “ Oh! Marie, my young, my dearest wife, is it thus we 

meet ? and here ?—thou with thy hands folded in dust, and I-Oh !” he cried, with a 

gush of agony, “ oh ! that I slept beside thee.” 

u 0, what shall I do ?” said the alarmed child : “ he weeps as if his heart would break. 
What shall I do? Sir—sir!” 

“ My child,” cried Demery, forgetting himself in his excitement, and sitting opposite 
the stone, u she was as beautiful as the painters idealize the Holy Mother of Heaven! O, 
it was dreadful to lose her all at once,—to lose her bright presence for the darkness of a 
dungeon. Terrible were those past years of my imprisonment: I know not how I bore it, 
and went not mad. She was so young, so beautiful—my wife! ” 

“What does this mean ?” said the boy, half aloud. “I do not understand it;—in 
truth, there is a great deal that I do not understand.” 

Demery was kneeling before the grave; his trembling hands held before heaven, he 
seemed to be pouring out his very soul as he spoke. 

“ Oh ! that the golden days would come again,—that in such a sunlight as this thou 
wert standing here, shedding a sense of joy and beauty around thee,—that thou and I, 
beneath this calm heaven, could see and talk to each other as of old,—both our faces 
upwards, and thank God that a man can at times be so happy ! Alas ! alas ! all is gone 
—lost!” 

“ Sir—sir,” said the child, “ pray come with me. You must, indeed you must. I am 
afraid,—pray come.” 

“ Stay, stay one moment, my child and Demery endeavoured, by a great effort, to 
collect his thoughts. “ Oh, my child,” said he, “ if this be the grave of Marie Demery, 




THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


155 


ray wife, and you strew flowers upon it, and call her—your—grandmother—who—then, 
are you ?—tell me—tell me! ” 

U I am little Philippe-” he was replying; but ere he had completed the sentence, 

he old man had fallen to the ground in a swoon. 

11 What shall I do?” cried the boy, in great perplexity,—“ what shall I do? he will 
die. Hah! I see our good Pierre coming this way;” for, looking towards the road, he 
beheld our friend all covered with dust, hastening on his way. “Ho, Pierre! Pierre!” 
shouted the boy, till his tiny voice reached the ears of the stalwart man. “ Come hither, 
Pierre !—my friend, Pierre, hasten, I beseech you ! ” 

“ Why, what is the matter, my little Philippe?” demanded Pierre, as he advanced 
towards him. 

“ Why, that gentleman”—and the child pointed to the prostrate man—“ I am afraid is 
very ill: raise him up, Pierre : gently—gently.” 

Pierre, as he lifted Demery from the ground, uttered an ejaculation of surprise. “ By 
heaven ! ” he cried, “ it is my old master. How wonderfully does Providence favour us. 
Now, my little Philippe, come ! Ah! he begins to recover.” 

And leaning on the stout Pierre, while little Philippe held his hand, the old man was 
quietly led homeward. 

It is to the same room where, some twenty years ago, we have introduced the reader, the 
same old, heavily-carved bookcase—the same pictures—harpsichord—chairs,—everything, 
saving an advance in age, was precisely as on the night that Queret Demery was arrested. 
Still the beautiful sunshine streamed into the room, while Philippe, tom by anxiety, alter¬ 
nately sat and walked about till his impatience was converted into agony. 

Madame Demery was endeavouring, by every persuasion in her power, to soothe him ; 
while Nanette, with the familiarity of an old and faithful domestic, was giving sundry 
orders to the servants ; and, in the full faith of Pierre’s promise, making arrangements for 
the reception of old Demery: on which Philippe smiled almdst bitterly at times, as though 
the whole were a mockery; though her affectionate interest affected him to the soul. 

But still it was an anxiously exciting time for Philippe Demery, who was expecting to 
behold, as it were, like a man risen from the dead, his father walk into the chamber; and 
then he would turn his eye to the picture of the handsome, elegant, proud young man, 
which was hung upon the wall—his father in his youth. What, then, should he see after 
twenty years of incarceration ? An idiot—an imbecile—a madman! For he might be either: 
but he should not behold him as he desired to see him—only a tottering form with grey 
hair and dimmed eyes;—yet, to see him thus would be a benediction. 

Still they waited; little Philippe had not returned; even his absence, unusually so pro¬ 
longed, was not noticed in the absorbing interest which was merged in old Demery. 

“ I hope—I hope,” repeated Philippe, with an almost devout eagerness, clasping his 
hands, “ that Pierre’s good and sanguine heart has not erred in this that he may not have 
deceived us in deceiving himself.” 



15G 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


(i Ah! monsieur!” cried Nanette, u do not say so, I beg of you. What! Pierre deceive 
you ? do not believe it; lie lias too much consideration for you and for us all to think so, 
unless there was almost, nay, a full certainty of it; and I assure you, Monsieur Philippe, 
my Pierre is not so easily deceived;” and Nanette shook her head energetically at any 
supposed doubt of Pierre’s correct conclusions which might be supposed to exist in the mind 
of any one. 

a But where can my little Philippe stay all this time ?” said Marie, suddenly. u He 
never remained so long before.” 

u True,” cried Philippe, struck with a new alarm, and snatching up his hat; u where 
can he be,—I will go forth and seek him.” 

a Hearken to that!” exclaimed Nanette, suddenly : u hearken to that shout.” 
u Can it be possible?” ejaculated Philippe, almost breathlessly leaning on the back of 
the chair for support, while Marie ran to his side, and Nanette sobbed, and laughed, and 
wrung and rubbed her hands, while the distant shout and the voices grew nearer. 

u I told monsieur so,” said Nanette, with tearful eyes, but smiling through them all;” “ I 
told you so, madame. Be assured that Pierre is bringing monsieur’s father home; the 
people have recognised him, and they are now saluting him—noisily enough, I must confess. 
Ah! he was so handsome,” added Nanette, casting a glance on the picture; 11 but, Holy 
Virgin! twenty years!—If I think about it I shall imagine myself old, and, my faith! that 
will never do. They are coming nearer—nearer to us.” 

u What strange emotions fill my heart!” exclaimed Philippe, as he still stood, now sup¬ 
porting his beloved Marie on his arm, for she too became greatly agitated as the sounds 
grew louder; and presently little Philippe ran into the room, saying,— 

u Oh! papa!—mamma!—there is an old gentleman, who was so kind to me: he is 
coming here with Pierre.” 

u With Pierre! ” exclaimed they both. 

“ Yes: I found him seated on my grandmamma’s grave, and you cannot imagine how 
he wept over her, and called her wife—Marie! it was very strange, and very sad to see him.” 
“ My poor father,” murmured Philippe; u how I tremble!” 

11 Y ou will be kind to him, will you not, papa ?” asked the child. 
u Oh ! yes—kind to him—yes—kind to my own father! ” exclaimed Philippe, almost 
choaking with the violence of his emotions. 

a I am so happy now, mamma,” cried the child, clapping his hands joyously. u Ah ! 
here he comes—here he comes.” 

And in truth they beheld, with indescribable emotion, the venerable old man—the pri¬ 
soner of the Bastile—the victim of lust and tyranny, with tottering steps, still leaning on 
the strong shoulders of Pierre, who, as he entered, exclaimed to the child,— 

“ Ah ! my little Philippe, we’ll play after this on the green, eh ? So—so! take courage, 
monsieur,” he added to the old man; u You are with kind people here. Behold! monsieur 
Philippe,” continued he, gravely addressing him, 11 1 give to you your father: it is a gift I 


THE AMERICAN IN EU*ROrE. 


157 


have meditated many years ago, but was hitherto unable to do so. Hein ! I am so glad. 
The old man’s faculties are confused yet;” and Pierre, as he spoke, assisted the aged 
Demery into his great chair, while Philippe stood rooted to the spot with surprise, gratitude, 
and emotion. Clasping Pierre’s hand, all he could utter was, “ Thanks—thanks, a thousand 
thanks.” 

“ How much do we not owe you, my good Pierre?” exclaimed Madame Demery, taking 
Pierre’s other hand. The great fellow almost blubbered aloud; but seeing the smiling face 
of Nanette, he took it fairly into both his large hands and kissed it; and then, with a 
politeness which would have become the most well-bred man in the empire, he was about 
to lead Nanette away, thus leaving the family alone with their profound and inexpressible 
feelings, when Philippe, laying his hand on his arm, stopped him. 

“ My father!” murmured the son ; “ yes, my heart tells me at once that it is he. Behold! 
my Marie,” continued Philippe, pointing, “ behold, how like he is to that portrait. I long 
to clasp him to my breast, to kneel at his feet, and say—father! oh! my father, bless me! 
Put that wine to his lips, dearest,” added Demery, as he observed the change on the old 
man’s faded cheeks. “ Pierre, my friend, once more thanks; you have given me a gift 
beyond all price, —I offer you no reward; for nothing can repay you.” 

“ Thanks to you, monsieur,” replied Pierre, with dignity, “ I wish for no other reward 
than to witness this scene and he stood aside. 

The wearied Demery by this was beginning to recover, and with the querulous doubts 
of age, said to Philippe,— 

“ Monsieur, pardon the trouble I put you to: I am an old man—a stranger—alone in 
the world.” 

“ Oh, no! ” exclaimed Marie, eagerly; “ not alone—not friendless.” 

“ You—are very—kind,” said the old man, faintly. “ My head is bowed with many 
deep griefs: twenty years in a prison make one forget what life and liberty can be.” 

“ Alas! ’tis true, my fatli —monsieur, I mean,” eagerly cried Philippe, hastily interrupt¬ 
ing himself, while the little boy was gazing wonderingly from the one to the other; “too 
true, sir,” continued Philippe; “but your sorrows end here,—your days shall, for the 
future, pass tranquilly. Y ou are at home.” 

“ Yes, oh! yes, indeed,” added Marie, her fine eyes beaming with love and affection, 
“ You are truly welcome to this house—to all or anything we can do for you,—believe me, 
monsieur.” 

“ How kind—how good you are,” exclaimed the worn man, struck by the free and cordial 
welcome he so unexpectedly met with among those whom he supposed to be mere strangers 
to him, and then, turning his head, he met the starlight face of his child, and stretching his 
hand, the boy ran to his arms, and was clasped to his grandfather’s bosom. Philippe and 
Marie were almost overpowered at this sight, so full of power—of love. “ There is some¬ 
thing in your voices,” said Demery, “ that is strangely familiar to meand he gazed 
with an aspect of awakening consciousness around him. 

2 R 


153 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


“ And I will love you so much,” cried the child, as he clambered up Demery’s knees. 

“ Bless thee, my child,” cried the old man, clasping the boy’s head in his hands, while 
unrestrained tears fell over his cheeks. 

“ And,” added the boy, “ we will go together now—will we not ?—to strew flowers 
upon the grave.” 

“ Ah!” replied Demery, “that grave !—I—I would ask—but how my thoughts vanish ! 
—what I icould ask pains me like a sharp agony, and I have now—forgot. What place— 
is this ?” 

“ Montmartre, my—father,” replied Philippe, hesitating as he pronounced the last word, 
which gave it, however, a singularly powerful impression. 

“ Montmartre, you said. Ah! I comprehend nothing—nothing;” and Demery leaned 
back in his chair as if to gaze around him. 

“ This is your home now—yours while you live ;” and Philippe, as he spoke, stretched 
forth his hand across the chamber. 

“ I have seen this room before, I think,” said Demery. “ Those pictures. That—that,” 
he cried, half raising himself in the chair, while his voice rose sharp and loud—“ that—that 
is my wife—my Marie. Ah !” it was a long heartbreaking sigh which he now breathed. 
“ It seems to me as if I had lived for years here ; as if it had been mine—this elegant 
chamber, with its busts, and books, and music, and the fragrant flowers. There is the very 
table too, from which I might have just arisen, after arranging my papers. Oh ! what a 
dream, what a vision I wake from—what bewildering thoughts fill me! Ah ! yes,” the old 
man was beginning to forget himself; for he softly ejaculated—“ Marie—come, come forth, 
my beloved and we will take a walk,—the day is pleasant, and the trees are green, and 
the shade is cool, while down through yon vast and solemn space pours the fine and 
spiritual impulses, that our souls alone seem to comprehend. Come—come! Where is 
Philippe—my little playfellow? Come, my Marie—Marie!” There was a painful pause ? 
for a mood of insanity, so wild, and yet so beautiful, had stolen over the old man that en¬ 
thralled his hearers. “Marie!” he cried, “why dost thou not come?—where does she 
tarry?—my beautiful! Gone! dead! dead did you say? Oh! have mercy on me!” and 
the palsied hands were clasped together in a strife of agony as another cloud stole upon his 
vision. “ Mercy for Marie ! do not tear her from me,—a word—a word—a farewell! but 
a look—oh, God! oh, God !—but one look. She is so young—so fair!—her face vanishes 
from me—fades away! she is lost—lost—lost!” he repeated, swaying his body to and 
fro. 

“ Madame,” whispered Pierre, as he stole up to the side of Philippe Demery’s wife,— 
“ madame, the dear lady whom my old master laments, used, when he was in a sad mood, 
to play at times some simple, sweet music—an old Breton air, which I have heard you play 
and sing—if you would-” 

“Yes—yes, certainly,” interrupted Marie; and she stole softly to the harpsichord, 
and soon beneath her fingers “ the gathering music rose;” the fine chords wreathed into 



THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


159 


modulations of sucli sweet and passionate "beauty, that the melody, while plaintive and 
melancholy, w r as as wild as winds in the air. 

u That air! that music!” cried Demery, starting and clasping his hands together in the 
overpowering rush of his feelings; “ there is hut one hand that can touch it so. It must 
he Marie! Oh, torture an old man no longer! Let me see truly, or he blind for ever! 
Take hence the shadows from this sunny landscape which dawns upon my soul! Who 
are you, Monsieur ? in mercy tell me! ” and the old man caught Philippe by the arm. 

“ I am Philippe Demery, your son,” was the low hut distinct reply, which was suc¬ 
ceeded by a pause of silence. 

“ You—Philippe Demery—my son ! ” repeated the old man. “ It is impossible, for 
look you, he was a little boy, who used to get upon my knees to kiss me.” 

At this moment the watchful Pierre bent his head down to the little Philippe, and whis¬ 
pered, “ Go to your grandfather at once and the boy, running in obedience to the request, 
said, with a graceful archness peculiar to him, “ I am little Philippe—Philippe is here.” 

“ Ah !” cried Demery, with a radiant smile; “ this is my child—this is my Philippe ! 
He has the eyes and the brows of Marie.” 

“ Marie is here also,” said a sweet and tender voice; and, looking up, the old man 
beheld the face of his son’s wife. 

“ My father,” said the younger Demery, taking his wife by the hand and kneeling 
before him; “ My father, bless us both ! I am your son Philippe—this is my wife Marie 
—and this is your grandchild ! ” 

“ Marie! Marie ! ” murmured the old man fondly, and gazing eagerly into her face; “ she 
bears a dear name; and where, then, is little Philippe ? Methinks I hear again the tiny 
voice that formerly said, 1 Papa, kiss me.’” 

“ Here,” said the child, clambering on his knee, and putting his arms around his grand- 
sire’s neck, “ Papa, kiss me!” 

“ God bless thee, child!” cried old Demery, wildly clasping the boy to his breast. 
Marie went once more to the harpsichord, and while Demery was passionately fondling 
his grandson, once more, in the soft stillness of the chamber, arose those liquid harmonies 
—the old air that had such a magic and a spell in every note. 

“Hush!” murmured Demery, “Hush! That air again! It falls around me like a 
spring-shower on the dry herbage. I grow once more fresh and youthful. Into the past 
I turn mine eyes.—How very beautiful! Hush ! My little Philippe, lay your head here, 
on my bosom. Thanks—thanks. Oh, Heaven! I am happy now!” 

Still the music played; and Nannette and Pierre stood looking on in silent joy and 
pride, while Marie, turning to her husband, quietly said, “ Doth he speak, my Philippe?” 

« No,” was the answer, “ he sleeps now. Look at them both! See how his calm lips 
smile! My father,” added he, reverently pressing his lips on his parent’s forehead ; “ My 
father, welcome home!” 



160 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


We have just returned after paying a visit to Vincennes, which has a magnificent 
chateau, with a towering donjon or keep, massive and mighty enough to become a small 
castle on its own account. The porte d'entree , square, solid, with its bridge and its 
gates like those of Gaza, demands of the spectator both attention and respect. The names 
of St. Louis—of Henry the Fifth of England, who died here—of Louis the Eleventh, who 
saw in it such facilities for his detestable purposes, and who made of it a state prison—of 
Louis the Thirteenth and Fourteenth, who made additions to it; these names are his¬ 
torically connected with the chateau, and indicate the parts it has played in the several 
episodes of French history of more or less importance. It was here that Napoleon the 
“ great,” who could become so “ little,” had the poor d’Enghien shot, and it is in the 
ditch that his body was buried. It is now used as a state prison, as a magazine and 
armoury, and regiments of artillery and infantry are constantly kept here. 

Returning by a circuit into Paris, by a barrier through which Talleyrand was earned to 
his grave, the postilion asked, as a direction by which he should go, “ vers quelle barriere ? ” 
received the reply which is as significative to some as a paradox would be, “ barriere 
d'enfer and on this discursive subject we chatted, as we clattered in our commodious 
vehicle along the streets. Our attention was called to an old mendicant, who, in defiance 
of the law, was plying his trade, and who (attended by a little child, whose somewhat 
attractive appearance awakened our sympathies much to his profit) had in his physiog¬ 
nomy that mixture of cringing and cunning which are inseparable from the face of one 
constantly trading upon credulity and charitable impulses. His small twinkling eyes spoke 
of that jollity and furtive festivity in which the professional beggar indulges himself when 
the success of the day has been commensurate with his importunity, though not, perhaps, 
to his desires. The mendicant is, perhaps, the only public pensioner who is never by any 
chance satisfied. In this instance we scarcely succeeded, though liberal. 

We observed also batches of scavengers here and there (for the most part women), w r ho 
seemed to have lost all character of sex, though, God knows, a heart of flesh is often enough 
to be found beneath an uncouth exterior and a ragged outside. With these, also, mingled 
other squalid apparitions—gaunt and cadaverous-looking chiffoniers , who, with basket on 
shoulder, and a hooked stick, rake in the mud of the towns, all filled with that exciting 
hope—which makes them bear such monstrous miseries—of picking the “lost purse of gold” 
which all and each expect to find some day or other before they die. These, with the 
gamin , the badaud , the escamoteur of the streets, indicate, with a severe emphasis, the 
extent to which civilization, spruce and smiling as a harlot going to her prayers, protects, 
cherishes, and fosters the poor of the great cities of Europe. 

Passing along one of the most thickly populated districts of the city, we saw a man 
hastening along, with bent shoulders, a head stretched out in advance of him, and taking 
long strides, with a peculiar swing of the body (which had a most ungainly aspect), though 
he evidently got rapidly over his ground. On his shoulder, suspended from a long stick, 
hung some dead rats, and under his arm was a box of nostrums for exterminating the 








2 'PTM/UCs rf-Os wA4rjr07U6ts 


















































































' / // / - f/Y.'/ /?/ s/ . y // / /, y ///// , /)////// '////s' / 















































































































































y/>. ■ 

■ / // 




/?y> 


/’ /j 




















VK- 


y,///.io/// 

























ff £ Lrock£tt.piruc. 

































































JAf.aC 


y 










































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


161 


vermin. He was well known to the street folk as “ Jean Bernard,” and his reputation 
was as peculiar as it was plainly ubiquitous. He was one of those popular eccentricities to 
which every town gives birth, and which is either an idiot, a knave, a scamp, or one whose 
pretensions, being humble, are cheerfully acknowledged by the community. “ Jean Ber- 
nard, therefore, it he had put up his claims as a 11 deputy,” would have had a very 
extended suffrage in his “ quarter,” however equivocal those votes would have been. 

Arrived at our hotel, we began to make arrangements for departure for Belgium and the 
Rhine; and our passports being accordingly prepared, our packing over, and our bills paid, 
we had nothing to detain us, the more particularly as our host had undertaken to see us to 
the diligence, which was to start for the frontier early the next day. It is, therefore, on 
the eve of such a departure that the tourist begins to make a summary of his sights and 
visits—that he recapitulates the places and the people that he has been at and seen—that 
he once more takes a retrospective and refreshing review of the past; and so it was with 
me on the last evening of our stay. 

For the present, therefore, I had put carefully by the conclusion of our friend Ralph 
Potter’s history, and by the balmy light of a fine evening I set myself alone to brood over 
the past, and to take one more glance at Paris, active and passive—Paris, that is a carcase 
of the many centuries since the Franks crossed the Rhine, and in which there lives a rest¬ 
less and impetuous soul of the ever-changing present. Looking into my note-book, I am 
amazed to find what a vast amount of detail I have to dispose of, and glancing at the vast 
circle I have yet to make (with certain remarks of more or less note, according to the sug¬ 
gestive elements a locality may contain), I find myself compelled to make hasty work of 
the multifarious fret-work of anecdote and traditionary reminiscence I possess. 

I must briefly mention the interest we felt in the busy Bourse, the thronged market, the 
bustling squares with their stately edifices and their noble fountains, which give such an 
air of freshness to the most antique of city spots. I forget not the u Temple,” with its 
infinite buyers and sellers, from an old shoe to a jewelled sabre, and from rags to royal 
robings—the Temple, which comprehends the whole antipodes of sale and barter, which 
does not create a new traffic, but which resells that which has been sold before—the great 
second-hand exchange of Paris, in fact. I say here but a word in recollection of the charming 
u Genevieve,” and of the pretty 11 bride ” at whose espousals I was present, and whom I met 
—with some kind friends I had made—at a rare and never-to-be-forgotten gala held at the 
Jardin Mabille; nor do I say how long those eyes haunted me after. It is pleasing thus to 
recall the features of those we have reason to love and esteem; and I omit not, in addition 
to these, the name of the bewitching u Ilortense” I once surprised seated pensively in a swing 
in the grove, her companions having laughingly left her in a dilemma she soon forgot in a 
reverie; nor can I easily forget her lovely sister, that in a paddock 1 found feeding her 
1 young pets,” (two beautiful fawns, that took food out of her hands with a docility that 
reminded one of the golden age,) and who scampered away at the first glance of Dewbank’s 
hirsute countenance. I had taken care, too, that in the way of cathedral and town-hall 

2 S 


162 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


architecture, nothing should escape me that was in any way worthy of notice; and thus 
it is, that by means of one or other of us, I am enabled to give pictorial remembrances of 
Rouen, of Amiens, and even of Amboise—that place so redolent of romantic reminiscences, 
thanks to the perplexing talent that Louis XI. had in making his chateaus the perfection 
of prison-houses, and which is rendered the scene for the greatest part of Walter Scott’s 
stirring romance of 1 Quintin Durward.’ Francis I., too, who lost all but honour at the 
battle of Pavia, D’Orleans, Catherine de Medicis, and a host of other names, instantly 
start up before the memory. Thanks to Ralph Potter, who had some passion for visiting 
Tours, we obtained a souvenir of Amboise. 

Amiens, which lay in our route, has a noble Cathedral, which holds one of the first 
places among the Gothic structures of France. It was erected in 1220, and, by a pecu¬ 
liarity in the stone, the flight of the 126 delicate shafts that support an immense vault, or 
the eccentricity of the builders, these shafts have the peculiarity of giving forth a tone when 
touched or struck ; one, called le pilier sonore , startles by the intensity of its prolonged and 
grave harmony, as though it were the string of some enormous harp. 

Adieu, then, to Paris! Adieu, then, for a long time, to France the beautiful! Adieu 
to Versailles, St. Cloud, Fontainebleau, and Meudon! Adieu to those frivolities even, which 
had a gratification for a grave American. What 1 have not written others have; are they 
not in the chronicles of every lounger who has been but a month in Paris, and are they not 
numerous enough to make tome upon tome of matter which my pages would not hold ? 
Adieu! we all said the next day. En route now for Germany and the Rhine! 








S 'Blbby, pinjc 




u/us7/y. 




London B rain & Payn e, 1 2 , Patera os tor I vow 










































































































































s 








' 








■■•• • - 



















































-// H T'iiyn* sc. 





























































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


163 


CHAPTER IV. 

NctlKilantJS—Mcst anti lEnst Jlanticrs, Brabant, Utege, tljc 

Oh, pleasant travelling—pleasant summer time, with cordial friends, no cares on the 
mind, and no fears for the future (not even for the sale of my hook)—how beautiful it is! 
The horses dash joyously along the roads, the heavy diligence rumbles and bounds on; 
and after we are shaken and jolted about, getting out while the horses change, and walking- 
ahead, asking questions of passers-by, greeting all frankly, and receiving kind greetings in 
turn—there is no such time in life ! 

We speedily began to note the almost English rurality of Belgium. Cleanliness, thrift, 
and order, were evident everywhere; and, religiously eschewing railroads where it was 
possible, we found ourselves in the heart of French Flanders, and passing through Lille, 
the ancient capital. 

This city—fortified by Vauban, the king of strongholds—built on the banks of the Deule, 
Ls held to be one of the finest in Europe. Its massive and tortuous walls and circumvalla- 
tion, seem as if the whole genius of War had been once concentrated against it, and one 
might have fancied that its deep foundations laughed to scorn a deluge of fiery hail that 
more than once fell around and within it. It is now devoted chiefly to the peaceful pur¬ 
suits of trade in soap, lace, linen, cloth, &c. In addition to those singular arrangements 
which belong to fortified cities, it has several favourable specimens of old and more modern 
architecture. Among the former, its college and museum—among the latter, its Porte de 
Paris, a fine bridge, a circus embellished with beautiful gardens, some fine markets, and 
other places which strike the hasty eye of the traveller; but the absorbing objects are the 
walls, the muniments, the sense of strong might, of adamantine resistance, of defiance to 
bomb and cannon, which, however, has not prevented it from being taken more than once. 

Leaving Lille, we once more started on our journey, and stopped at Bruges, where, after 
having spent some hours in strolling around the city, and admiring the striking character¬ 
istics that rose up in such a multitudinous amplitude around us, we turned our attention 
chiefly to the church of St. Salvador and the town-hall. 

Bruges rose to eminence in the thirteenth century, and became one ot the great empo¬ 
riums of the Hanseatic league, an association of merchants and citizens, who joined 
together for protection and defence against the tyrannous rapacity of the old Earls of 
Flanders; and merchants from northern Europe, as well as from the Lombardian cities, 
met together there for the purposes of traffic. 


1G4 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


Like many of the old cities of Europe, its population, its wealth, and its once extensive 
manufactures, have dwindled down considerably in point of numbers, amount, and impor¬ 
tance. The cathedral of St. Salvador is one of its oldest, as also one of its proudest monu¬ 
ments. It was founded nearly fourteen hundred years ago, and was once burned down 
and rebuilt, though the ideas connected with what is superb and grand do not here strike 
one, as the outer shell is chiefly formed of brick. It contains some of the finest paintings and 
altar-pieces that the country boasts of; and the names of Yon Oost the elder, Bakerel, 
Langen Jean, and Gerard Seghers, indicate with tolerable certainty the value of the pic¬ 
torial treasures. We spent many hours in looking over the building, as also the town-hall, 
sketches of which are given for the better satisfaction of the reader. 

From Bruges to Ghent the journey was but a short one, and a day after found us in 
the capital of East Flanders, situated at the confluence of three rivers which mingle in 
the Scheldt. Built, in fact, upon waters, its streets are navigable canals, and innumerable 
bridges offer facilities for otherwise traversing the city than by means of boats. The city 
is of a triangular form, is divided into some twenty-six islands, and has a circumference of 
about fifteen miles, the greater portion of which is devoted to gardens, bleaching-grounds, 
and com. Ghent, with eighty thousand inhabitants, its gates, squares, and more than fifty 
stately churches, has some claim to be considered important—and in reality is so. The 
cathedral of St. Bavon, adorned by some of the wonderful productions of Yan Eyck, 
whose mastery of colour is to this hour a marvel for the freshness and vividness of its hues, 
remains almost unequalled in the world. The tower, which was twice burned down, rises 
to nearly three hundred feet, and terminates in a platform, from whence a fine view of the 
surrounding country is to be obtained. The pulpit of carved wood, decorated with marble 
reliefs, is from the chisel of Delvaux, a sculptor of great reputation in his time. 

The subject of Yan Eyck’s picture is taken from the Apocalypse, and the Celestial 
Lamb, surrounded by angels and saints, is one of the most artistic and precious efforts of 
genius ever produced. Painted, as it was, upwards of four hundred years ago, the brilliant 
effect of the whole is almost incredible; and time, which blackens the pictures of other 
artists, has had here no such effect. 

The cathedral has several of its twenty-four chapels thus elegantly and devoutly 
adorned. In the fourteenth, we see a picture by Beubens, of St. Bavon being received into 
the abbey of St. Arnaud. The accessories of the altar, the candlesticks, &c., are of equal 
value as relics of decayed genius, and the four candelabras are said to have belonged to 
Charles I. 

The town-hall is a fine specimen of Gothic architecture, and the date of its erection is 
placed as far back as the ninth century, which very possibly is correct. A great portion of 
it remains in all the charm of its original form, with its carvings, and its tracery and fret¬ 
work. Time, probably, has attacked the remaining parts, and the taste of the architect, or 
ot those who had any superintending influence, prompted the modernizing of the rest, so 
that the contrast is as striking and distasteful as it is destructive to its beauty. 



7 


Sr. /v/ 


/>/ 
































U Albert 


















































































































































































































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


165 


M e are now in Antwerp, which has a quaint, grand stateliness, rather of an hereditary- 
kind than of constant progression. Its merchant princes once built cathedrals, and its 
painters were grandees in other lands. A traveller says, that if you 11 take away Reubens 
and the cathedral, Antwerp would not be Antwerp.” It is the same with other places, 
we apprehend. Take away the nose from a man’s face, and a pretty large question is laid 
open as to his identity. But the cathedral is a surprisingly noble affair, and seizes upon 
the imagination at once. A tower, that is one tissue of fine and ornate carving, springing 
up with an effect almost magical to a height of some four hundred feet from the ground, 
appears like an arrowy shaft darting out of the earth, while the interior, again, is decorated 
with some of the masterpieces of Reubens, monuments of his genius, creating an ever- 
pervading sense of beauty in the mind of the spectator. 

Broad calm streets, with quaint yet stately mansions, are the characteristics of the city. 
Its inhabitants are still rich, proud, and impressed with the remembrances of former glories, 
which lifted them to so eminent a position in the history of the past; and though the port 
boasts of little more than a hundred vessels, instead of, as formerly, some two thousand at 
a time, still there is a display of opulence and burgher wealth which cannot fail to strike 
the most ordinary observer. 

The town-hall is, in itself, an unique specimen of a style of architecture that yet contains 
within it the elements of so many beauties, as to be still prevalent in most of the neigh¬ 
bouring cities, and to be imitated with considerable success in reproductions of an inferior 
kind. It has a stately and imposing air, and, with its stormy reminiscences and suggestive 
memories, is unquestionably a source of gratification to the amateur, whether as an anti¬ 
quarian or as an architectural study. 

We quitted Antwerp after a somewhat lengthened stay, and, bending our track towards 
the beautiful Rhine, arrived very speedily at Brussels. This is a cheerful sunny city, but in 
its provincialism, striving, as it were, with an effort and an air, to become a second Paris, 
and to share in the importance of its great rival. There is something to provoke a smile in 
the unapproachable distance which lies between. It has received favour in the eyes of the 
English, however, for many reasons, and those chiefly of a low and vulgar kind, associated 
with lace, luxury, and cheap living. It is this pretentious element, prevailing generally 
among such sub-populations of English, that give it a contemptuous aspect on the whole; 
aud there is in this a certain conventionality with respect to it, which impresses one in 
like manner as it did an Englishman and his family who had quitted it to dwell in 
Antw r erp, as he u would not have a good name, which he had at home (he said), damned 
by a residence in Brussels.” 

We went to look at the splendid collection of paintings in the Museum, and bestowed 
a portion of our admiration on the manufacture of Brussels lace, into which w r e got some 
little insight, and hastily glanced at the palaces, which had the same features of antiquity 
put in abrupt contrast with modern repairs in the very last and worst style of the fashion 
—the same cumbrous magnificence and weary weight of half-faded grandeur—the same 

2 T 


166 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


rooms, suite upon suite, till one grows tired of the monotony of walking through them, and 
are only roused when we people them with the forms of the past. 

Finally, we went to look at the very fine cathedral church of St. Gudula, and having 
stood rapt for a few moments before the altar and devotional paintings it contains, we were 
fascinated by the painted windows, which are perhaps without a rival of their kind within a 
dozen surrounding principalities. 

We now proceeded by steam through the fine, well-tilled land to Liege, which, for its 
manufactures in iron and steel, and the skill of its artisans in every branch of the arts of 
working in the metals, is the Sheffield of Belgium. The broad pastures, and grounds under 
cultivation on both sides of the railroad, reminded us of the high state of perfection, and of 
the constant and unceasing reproduction, to which they have got the grounds and market- 
gardens around London. Here, rood upon rood—green, blossoming, beautiful—indicated 
resources and stores from whence arrive those vast accumulations in the markets of the 
great cities—Paris and London being supplied from these in a more or less degree—which 
men wonder at, and the u cockney ” marvels where they get them from. 

Around the environs of Liege, the country has a very lively and charming aspect, as it 
rises in beautiful hills, diversified with trees and pretty houses, which give an animation 
of the most pictorial kind to the neighbourhood. The town is situated on the confluence 
of the Ourthe and the Meuse, and is the seat of a bishop, and one of the two High Courts 
of Justice is established here. Its inexhaustible stores of coal have created its modern 
greatness, and given to its trade and manufactures an importance that has lifted it to opulence 
and power. It has numberless forges, a cannon foundry, a manufactory of arms, and its 
stores of various kinds of ironware are almost beyond count. One incessant bruit, arising 
from the hammers of the vast workshops, fills the air with a din that is not wanting in a 
sort of rude harmony, which has a rather cheerful effect, and indicates all the cheerful activity 
of business. It has also tanneries, cloth works, and glass and crystal have now become 
important elements of its wealth-creating enterprise. It boasts of fine colleges, a school of 
music, deaf and dumb schools, and a free establishment for the education of the children of 
the working classes. The cathedral of St. Jaques and the town-hall, both grand and noble 
edifices, attract attention, and, with other remnants of an older time, give an interest of 
quite another kind to this city, that has sustained battles and sieges, and whose people 
have held so conspicuous a place in history, as ardent friends to liberty, and undismayed foes 
to oppression. Within a circle of fifteen miles there are towns and villages (connected with 
it by canals and railroads) of commensurate importance, and very fully populated. All are 
engaged in some business or other; and the nobility of the Liegeois are chiefly the creation 
of the foundry and the forge, though many of the old names that became prominent in the 
troublous times of the Reformation and the League are still to be met with. 

Our road to Cologne now lay through Aix-la-Chapelle; and other people, another 
language—quite another species of the race—appeared on every side of us, with aspects of 
improvement so grafted on to the noble old German stock, as made us warm to it at once. 




. 







































































. 















































































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


171 


—through hamlets half hidden by blossom and green leaf, and now began to traverse the 
city itself, which has upwards of one hundred fountains, thirty public buildings, and quite 
as many churches and edifices of note, if not more in number, dividing our time at leisure 
between the Kaisersaal (or regal hall) and the Liebfrauenberg (or parade), which, when 
crowded with its motley frequenters, is like a brilliant “ vanity fair.” 

Besides the Ariadne of Dannecker, the fame of which has become universal, and the 
emotions which moved us on visiting the house where the great Goethe was born—that 
sentimental yet sombre genius which has aided to raise the German literature to such a 
lofty altitude—we were gratified with beholding the noble statue of the poet, sculptured 
by Schwanthaler, and cast in the foundry of Stiglmayer and Miller, which now forms one 
of the “ lions” of Frankfort. The statue was cast of Turkish cannon recovered at Nava- 
rino. It has a stately look, with few artistic faults, which, however, are lost in its vast¬ 
ness, and its has reliefs are illustrations of his greatest creations. 

We had exhausted the city, both interior and exterior, and for Ralph’s sake prolonged 
our stay, till reminded, by the flight of time, that we had to cross the white boundary of 
the Lombardian plains, and then we parted. We had to go by the hills of the Rheingau 
towards Heidelberg, while Ralph made for Weimar; and*here I may as well give the 
reader a summary of his journey, with as little commentary as needful, (seeing it was not 
our regular route,) together with the notabilities friend Ralph saw and told us of when we 
met again. 

Passing by Fulda, where St. Boniface established a dynasty of fat and happy monks, 
and which looked enchantingly beautiful in the haze of the soft and dreamy day, he arrived 
at the Wartburg, and being a great admirer of Luther, he, as a matter of course, descended 
in order to pay a visit to the chapel, which is situated on a hill near Eisenach, in the Grand 
Duchy of Weimar, and where, after the diet of Worms, the recusant lodged for about a 
year under the protection of Frederic the Wise, and it was in this place, fitted to inspire 
one with a grand fanaticism, that he fulminated some of his most tremendous truths against 
the evils of the Papal Church. 

At Leipsic, Ralph shuddered beneath the stupendous height of the ambitious and inele¬ 
gant roof of the Church of St. Thomas, which lifts up its ugliness towards heaven, as if to 
attract both the admiration—for monstrosity sometimes commands it—of the world, and its 
unqualified censure. It is precisely like that of a huge barn. He had, however, the oppor¬ 
tunity of paying homage at the monument erected to the memory, and in honour of, the 
renowned Sebastian Bach, whose choral melodies, and intricate yet unequalled fugues, are 
still the marvel of professors, and the passion of those who delight in “ sounds and sweet 
airs.” The town-hall and the market-place, taken as a whole, have a quaint and even 
pleasant suggestiveness about them, especially to those who love to associate the burgher- 
life of the past with the snug rambling interiors of old and venerable edifices. The 
post-house is also a picturesque specimen of the older style ot Continental building. It 
need scarcely be remarked here, that Leipsic is famous for its great fairs, in which books 


172 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


from all countries form a prominent object of sale and barter. This contributes, in a direct 
or indirect manner, to the reputation and the profit of the literary world ; but it also affords 
the publisher an opportunity of effecting sales in books which at home may remain long on 
hand, as dead stock, and, in addition, it turns the current of intelligence and intercom¬ 
municated knowledge into every possible channel. 

Desirous of seeing Dresden, Ralph first found himself at Friburg, which possesses a 
magnificent cathedral, the carving and ornaments of which are by some supposed to surpass 
those even of Strasburg, which at least speaks very highly in their favour. Certainly, if 
not so stately, it is extremely beautiful. From the terrace of a hermitage without the 
town, a certainly splendid view is commanded, while the river which runs beneath, (and 
over the valley of which, elegant suspension-bridges are thrown here and there,) contribute 
to give an air of picturesque lightness to the whole, which is heightened by the sight of 
cattle grazing in the meadows, and peasant maidens chatting together in the open air. 

The following tradition is told of the Grotto of St. Odille, which is in the immediate 
neighbourhood of Friburg :— 

Odille, daughter of the Duke of Alsace, having been brought up in a convent to the 
habits of a religious life, resolved to devote herself to heaven by taking the veil, and one 
day departed from her father’s court for this purpose, leaving all the noble young knights, 
her suitors, in the greatest grief. 

Among the number was a German prince, on whom her father, Duke Attich, had looked 
with favour, but to avoid whose suit she had set forth habited as a beggar, and thus passed 
the Rhine in a small boat. The Duke discovering this, in his anger and disappointment 
set out in pursuit; and, from the boatman’s description, had no doubt but that he was 
on her track, and continued to follow with fresh energy. 

Odille, climbing one of the forest mountains, had sat down to rest, and, while engaged 
in prayer, hearing the sound of horses’ feet, looked below, and beheld her father’s troopers 
climbing the zig-zag path. She hastily rose to her feet, but, naked, tender, and bleeding, 
they refused to bear her onward, and she fell exhausted to the ground. 

In her agony and alarm, horrified at the possibility that she, who had intended to 
become the bride of heaven, should be compelled to accept the hand of an earthly lover, 
she prayed fervently for deliverance. The rock opened, and when again it closed, she had 
disappeared. Presently she heard her father’s voice, in his bereavement, calling upon her. 

“ My child ! my child !” he cried, u where art thou gone to ?” 

u My father,” her voice replied, while he trembled at hearing these familiar tones 
coming from the mysterious shelter she had found—“ My father, you persecute him who 
loves me.” 

Recognising in all this the will and influence of a superior power, Duke Attich swore 
to respect his daughter’s vow, and promised to build for her a convent. The rock opened, 
and, arrayed in garments of a heavenly brightness, Odille came forth, and fell upon his 
bosom. The legend states that she wept, and begged his forgiveness !—for what, friend 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


175 


patriots, takes place, and where their busts are shown, in order to keep their names and 
memories alive. The design was that of King Louis, and it is worthy of Pericles and the 
Parthenon. Standing as it docs, and where it does, it has a most imposing aspect. This 
is heightened, when its design is also taken into consideration. It is attained by a flight 
of nearly three hundred marble steps, which, by the way, are more artistic than agreeable 
to the traveller. Everything within and without, gate and entrance, plinth, and archi¬ 
trave, and capital, are upon colossal—even cyclopian dimensions. The sense of vastness 
adds to the illusion, which is so purely ideal, that the imagination can fill the place with 
the grandeur of presences that reach from the days of Arminius, (who destroyed the 
legions of Augustus,) downwards; it is thus the nucleus and centre of an interest which, 
while it fastens itself upon the affections of the people, makes them proud of that assemblage 
of the mighty dead that are already represented within the walls, and anxious to emulate 
the splendour of those deeds of act, and thought, which make men immortal, and cause 
them to be spoken of with reverence and love long after they are passed away ; and a 
more legitimate inspiration than this cannot be infused. Conceive, however, his disgust 
on finding that Luther was excluded from the number. 

To Saltzburg (after a hasty glance of Ratisbon), famous as the birthplace of the immor¬ 
tal Mozart, whose statue, sculptured by Schwanthaler, gives honour to the city, and per¬ 
petuates the name of the great melodious magician,—to Saltzburg Ralph then made his 
way, and here the half-Italian appearance of the city, and the scene, struck him with their 
characteristic combinations, partially architectural, but chiefly from the natural features or 
the city as it stands, and rises like an acropolis from the waters, circled in by an amphi¬ 
theatre of peaked and lofty mountains. 

It is one of those cities whose glories are things of the past, and whose vitality the 
advance of time does not contribute further to. In the last twenty years, from unexplained 
causes, it has lost half its population; and a city that, for its almost imperial magnificence, 
was at one time known as a u little Rome,” is gradually becoming dead and inanimate, its 
edifices empty, its spacious squares deserted, and its traffic a tradition; and, but for the 
beautiful scenery on the river Salzach and the immediate environs, it would probably be 
a silent monument of its departed glory. Something that had a mournful and depressing 
tendency struck Ralph as he gazed upon it, and visited its suburbs, and crossed its bridge 
of 370 feet in length. Six-and-twenty, or even a larger number of churches, must alone 
contribute to give to it an imposing air. The cathedral, built in a pure Italian style, 
by Solari of Como, is adorned with fine paintings and statues of marble. It was in this 
city that Paracelsus died, who, if he was the charlatan of his age, contrived, at all events, 
to cast a poetic mantle over his deceptions, and to cloak his impostures with characteristics 
of the most dazzling and ambitious kind ; but even these decaying splendours could not 
hide the crumbling indications that Ralph beheld around him, as though the tooth of time 
had bitten deeply into stone and wood, and the canker had become universal and chronic. 

This short, and even scant episode, was necessary for the satisfaction of the reader, if 



176 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


only to connect together the sketches which the quick eye and facile pencil of Ralph trans¬ 
ferred to his portfolio, and which with him, like most things that he undertook, was a 
passion, to he gratified at any cost; merely adding here that he crossed the Tyrol, by way 
of Inspruck, in order to arrive at the appointed place. I shall here return to our own route, 
which, after leaving Frankfort, was again bent for Heidelberg. 

We had, in order to while away the hours, and to escape from the tedium caused by our 
sudden parting from Ralph, entered—it being evening—into a rude but large kitchen in 
the suburbs, where some strolling players were representing a comedy, which was more 
remarkable for emphasis of acting, and for force of language, than for the artistic skill of 
the corps dramatique, or the refinement of the piece. The next morning we had the oppor¬ 
tunity of witnessing a witty altercation between a sweep and a servant girl belonging to 
the hotel, into the kitchen of which the talents of the dark artisan had been required, and 
some observations of his had provoked a repartee, which caused no small amount of amuse¬ 
ment. It w r as neither rude nor coarse, however, and its good humour redeemed it from 
being an impertinence. 

Passing by Darmstadt, we could not help casting a regretful glance at the fair 
Linden walk, without the Rhine-gate, which, on account of its gravelly nature, is fit for 
promenading on in all seasons. Deep woods, villages, mills, lakes, and running water lie 
on either side, and, full of admiration, we at last plunged into the green valley of the 
Neckar, and stood in the streets of Heidelberg—picturesque, quaint, dust and time- 
eaten, but strangely beautiful in the paling light of the declining day. It is celebrated 
for what it has been, rather than what it is. Its university, gymnasium, and other socie¬ 
ties still command respect; while its ruined castle, its mighty wine-vat, and its connec¬ 
tions with rare wine, old hock, ghostly German stories, which make the fireside and the 
winter’s night so glorious, are among the things which time deals kindly with. 

Hoary and aged, the extensive ruins of the castle stand commandingly on the Jetten- 
biilil. Behind, in fine relief, are oak and pine-crested hills. From the terrace you might 
almost leap into the town below. Passing out of the gardens behind the castle, one goes 
under the arches of the Giant’s Tower into the great court-yard. The splendour of old 
ruins, their imposing and varied styles, with a sort of stateliness that makes itself peculiarly 
felt, strike the spectator. Medallions, arms, exquisite sculptures, in all the lavish profusion 
of artistic skill and plenty, attract the attention. Caryatides, arabesques, flowers, lions and 
griffins’ heads, support arches, or centre them. Next to the famous Alhambra, the ruins of 
Heidelberg are the most magnificent of the middle ages. Fitting spot to view the scene 
below, where the town rests peacefully on the shore of the grape-fructuating Neckar. Op¬ 
posite rise the Odenwald; and the Alsation hills, blue or purple, complete the picture. But 
the tun, the vat, or rather the huge wine-cask, is the crowning glory of Heidelberg, and 
shares its renown. It stands in an arched hall, like a Bacchus crowned with flowers. With 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


177 


a diameter of 18 feet, it must hold a goodly amount of the generous liquor. Let the name of 
its maker, Michael Werner, of Laudacica, he held in proper honour with it. We did both 
justice, believe us; and as soon as we had had our fill of the fascinating old place, where, 
by the by, we met with some young students from the new world, we rolled on to Carls- 
rnhe, and found Baden lightly reposing in a valley of streams and freshets, gentle hills 
rising on every side, and shady walks on all hands inviting us to stroll along them. 

The spacious public saloons and ball-rooms upon the Cursaal, finished and furnished like 
palaces, are crowded of an evening with fashionable and often frivolous crowds of people. 
Here, too, are to be found those gambling tables—those almost incredible agents of ruin— 
those doorways to perdition, in which good men and fair women enter, and return—never 
more! Silently, but with a silence of a fierce and feverish nature, the infernal play goes 
on. Now the howl of the maniac breaks it—now the pistol-shot of the suicide, or the 
bubbling that follow^ the poinard of the assassin, are heard. Impassive, however, the 
keepers, bankers, and gamblers play on. The boxes rattle, the ball whirrs, the monoton¬ 
ous cry of the game is muttered, the golden coin jingles tunefully; but oh! what hag¬ 
gard, spectral creatures do they soon become—one set demonized; the other, harpies! 

Under the glare of the overhanging lights, while wine was drunken of, and the music 
pulsed from the dancing-rooms in the distance, I contemplated a picture that gave me but 
little pleasure. It was like that of the obstinate and lost souls in the Castle of Indolence. 
There stood a circle of human beings, actuated by one of the most contemptible passions 
that can degrade a man, and beggar him of every loftier quality—cupidity. The desire of 
gain is, in one form, an honest and healthy impulse; but to gain by the chance of the 
gaming table is quite another thing. Avarice must have chuckled to see those inhuman- 
ized and pallid faces. If there be such a thing as a poetic side to this disgusting picture, 
it is that of the constant reanimation of hope. What kind of brazen-looking harlot would 
the benign goddess look under such a limning? 

It was a blessing to go forth into the woods, by the waters, up the hills, around the 
valleys, and far away from the reeking pestilence of these poison-houses, which have a 
power to fascinate the stoutest, the best. To shun, to fly, is wiser than to defy and dally. 
There was that without, in the cool shady groves, which repaid us; for I saw, within the 
few half hours I spent in the gambling saloon at Baden, enough to last me my life. As 
for Dewbank, he was almost furious at being made to confess that he believed the passion 
could be infused into the most apathetic. Ruin and suicide—misery and horror—these are 
the seeds fruitfully sown there. For my part, when I hear that a gambler has blown out 
his brains, I feel a sort of savage satisfaction at it. If a man is bent on going to the devil, 
the sooner he is gone the better. 

Strasburg, where we arrived at next, has one of the most noble and beautiful of all the 
Gothic churches we had seen. The loftiest pyramid is but twenty-Jive feet higher, I was 
informed, than the Monster Tower. It has an incomparable air of towering sublimity, 

which tones down its richness with a harmony that is felt, while one stammers in the attempt 

2 Y 


178 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


to express it, and where language fails in description. There is a profusion of the minutest 
work, and that of the most ornate style in almost every stone, which, viewed in conjunc¬ 
tion with the whole, is totally lost; but while it does give a character to the whole stupen¬ 
dous pile, the curious can anatomize it on closer inspection, bit by bit, and thus perceive and 
appreciate the patient labour of the old architects of the Gothic ages—ages that, while 
every other art was either dead or had retrograded, still, in the mysterious confraternity’ 
of free-masonry, brought down from the days of Solomon, the consummate skill which is 
only imitated—scarcely equalled—at this day. The city itself, besides being a judicial 
seat of some importance, and besides its episcopal rank, possesses many institutions and 
noble edifices, of an antiquity and a value quite suitable to its own proper dignity. Once 
the capital of Alsace, and a French province, it is essentially German in language and man¬ 
ners. The environs consist of many pleasant gardens, and a favourite walk is planted 
with an avenue of trees, and is called the Ruprechtsau. 

We were now bidding adieu to the Rhine. We looked on its picturesque windings from 
the heights, like lovers, who cast a last regretful glance after the beloved one. We thought 
of its rich wealth, on the beauties of nature, on the treasured poetry of its traditions, its 
vine-bearing shores, and felt a part of its joy, as from the depth of its flowing heart some 
sweet singing arose like ballads of the past. Not like a lover who hopes to behold his 
mistress again did we cast a backward glance. We had bidden it farewell, most likely, 
for ever. It had become dear to us; and when we finally quitted Basle, and clomb up to 
Switzerland, we felt sadder; and whether wiser men or not, I will not undertake to say. 
We could not, however, be very much the worse for feeling a momentary sadness at losing 
the loveliness of the Rhine. Grander scenes were in store for us; but we missed Ralph 
Potter more and more. 
















































































































































































































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


179 


CHAPTER V. 

§bfott?etlanfc. 

Basle, Soleure, and Berne, full of historic memorials, having been left, we began to 
enjoy the ever-changing and sublimer aspects of the mountain scenery we now passed 
through, or beheld far away from us. Here rivers lost their character of lovely repose, of 
stately tranquillity. They became brawling torrents, impetuous cascades, dizzy and thun¬ 
derous falls; and going strong and soundingly along, rejoicing in their might, and grand 
in all their irresistible force, at last gathered into mighty basins, and formed lakes that 
are among the loveliest and the broadest in the old world. 

Here, once more, were a new people, language, and manners; still, as yet, there was a 
German air mingled with the whole. We arrived at Thun, and stood in delight gazing on 
this purely Alpine city—the gate, as it were, of the Bernese Oberland, and situated on the 
rapidly rushing Aar. Beautiful indeed it lay—almost reposing within a mile of the waters 
of the lake. Here an island is formed, on which the parish of Bellitz is situated, with the 
church standing on an elevation, which gives I know not what of quiet and placidity to 
the whole. The narrow town, which winds with the river, boasts of four wooden bridges, 
and numbers some five thousand souls. It sleeps under the shadows of the Oberland, while 
the pointed Alps, far away, bound the picture. The next day we had a boat out on the 
lake, which sometimes, when the wind comes down the mountains, gathers together the 
dignity of a mimic sea in a tempest. It is fourteen miles long, and is between three and 
four wide. The Aar runs quite throughout it; and on the one shore, vineyards and green 
ascents diversify the picture, while rocks more rugged, on the other, vary the shifting 
aspect. On the following morning we set out at sunrise, and traversed the deliciously 
cool valley of the Lauterbrunnen, with its green pastures and sentinel-like ruins here and 
there dotting the hills. We had, while leisurely walking along, the Jung-frau in the far 
distance, and the Schreck-horn and Schwarz-hom still beyond. Around this valley moun¬ 
tains rise like walls, and falling waters create a sort of deep diapason of harmony unutter¬ 
ably impressive. You see the herdsmen, with their docile cattle, on the swarded slopes; 
and passing places where sketchers stop to add to their pictorial stores, by cottages, 
and sleeping villages, and green trees, arrive, by a slight deviation, at Interlachen, one of 
the most enchanting spots on earth at a certain hour in the day, and on a certain day in 
the year. In the evening, as the last light of the sun dies in the valley, and kisses the 
silver-topped mountains, the Jung-frau and the Silver-horn seem, in their flashing attire, 
like shadowy angels standing on the portals of some sublimer world. 


180 


THE AMERICAN IN EUKOPE. 


A day or two after, we had sailed up the lake of Brienz, and rode into the pretty little 
village of Meyringen, which, embowered in cherry trees, and with innumerable and appa¬ 
rently perpendicular runnels of water pouring down the very face of the Alpbach, and 
gliding away into the Aar, so attracted our notice, and pleased our senses, that inconti¬ 
nently it was put down into the sketch-book, as we first caught the idea, while standing 
in the pretty village street. 

From the summit of a hill, while gazing downward over woodland and meadow, which 
contrasted strangely with the white and fleecy Alps on every hand, the ancient Castle of 
Besti is seen. All around the birds sing as in the sweet copses of an English scene. The 
trees cast down soft shadows, and sheeted waterfalls come tumbling down the wooded 
ravines, fretted with spires of foam, like the silver tops of a cathedral; and thus rambling 
about a spot where the beauty of the warm and fruitful summer had robbed the sterner 
features of the country of the grim and spectral whiteness which it wears in the winter, 
we took up our abode, in order to wait for Ralph Potter, who, we knew from letters wait¬ 
ing for us, would ere long be at hand; and here it was that, on a sweet evening, seated in 
a chamber which looked into a flower-garden, we took up Ralph’s manuscript, and finished 
it out of hand;—and here we offer it to the reader, who, we hope, will be as greatly inter¬ 
ested in its somewhat abrupt and startling end as we ourselves were. 


Conclusion of tljc Jotorg of gUfnc. 

u The fever in my blood,” it went on, “ the conflict of passions which had made my 
heart pulsate and my brain throb, were scarcely stilled when I woke the next morning 
after my strife with De Souche, and began to ponder what I should do. I loved her , I 
hated him! The one was a consequence of the other, and what the conclusion of all this 
was to be I did not know. That there was something dire and terrible enough, brew¬ 
ing as a catastrophe, I felt perfectly assured; but, in the meantime, there was I struggling 
in my pent-up fury, determined to save Aline—to save her for whom I would have 
poured out my blood like water—desirous also of meeting with my foe once more, and 
in such wise, and at such a time and place, as should make the strife final. 

11 The only thing that suggested itself to me, was to go in search of her ; and as I had 
already penetrated by the forest to the habitation of the planter and his slave, I could have 
no difficulty in once more discovering it. I barely waited for breakfast, and taking my 
rifle and ammunition, together with a hunting-knife, for any emergency that might happen, 
I started forth. In the shade of the noble trees I could defy the fierceness of the sun’s 
vertical rays ; and caring for neither snakes in the grass, nor wild cats in the branches, with¬ 
out much risk or labour discovered my track of a former day. Finally, I arrived at the spot 
where I had seen Aline; and the elegant house, with its green and cool verandah stretched 
between laurel bushes, and a profuse intertanglement of the most brilliant tropical flowers, 
stood before me. Not a soul was to be seen moving about, not a human sound was to be 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


181 


heard. Birds, however, sang blithely overhead, while parrots, of brilliant plumage, chat¬ 
tered in the most lively manner. Aquatic fowl plashed in the cool waters of the broad 
basin, on whose margin, broad, deep-tinted water-flags hung with a dewy and grateful splen¬ 
dour. I was possibly on dangerous ground—on ground I could not convince myself I had 
a right to occupy—and yet I could not have gone back one step for the world. The inter¬ 
view with him or her, or both, was to be a last one; and, desperate as it was, I imagine 
this feeling made me bent on accomplishing a purpose scarcely recognizable to myself. 
Reckless of everything, I had still sufficient command over myself to keep in the shelter of 
the dense and aromatic vegetation, lest, by an absurd rashness, I should disappoint my own 
plans, such as they were. Suddenly I was brought to a halt, for the following words fell 
on my ears :— 

u 1 I will not force you; but, remember, your father lives, a hunted outlaw, whom I could 
send to the galleys ! ’ 

u ‘ My father !—the galleys !’ and then followed a heart-rending cry, 1 Oh ! have mercy, 
man! Be not all the demon you seem bent on being. But it is false ! ’ 

u 1 He is a murderer, and he is in my toils ! No defence that he can make will have 
power to save him. You have been led to believe him dead ! Shall I show him to you, 
bound to the flogging post ? Shall I lead you to the foot of the gibbet, to which a word of 
mine can consign him ? ’ 

111 No, no ! Oh, for God’s sake, no ! ’ was the earnest cry. 1 What have I done to be 
thus degraded, and hunted to such shame and anguish ? Spare me, lest I go mad, and do 
that which you, unrelenting as you are, may be sorry for! ’ 

111 You have scorned my love, and listened to another. Fool! do you think that a man 
like myself is to be thwarted? You threaten too ! that is still less a reason. Spare you ! 
You are mine—my goods, my property, my slave! and it is not your tears—which would 
dry up in the very heat of your own baffled rage were but your paramour here—that 
shall save you ! ’ 

u 1 Paramour ! ’ Then there was a pause. 1 Would I were dead—dead ! and, coward 
that I am—but take heed, master and owner of me, as you call yourself, take heed, I say! ’ 
u I was standing before an open window, which was half covered with the gorgeous 
buds and blossoms of a vast rose-tree which filled the purpled atmosphere with an insup¬ 
portable weight of odours, and then I heard the sob and the voice which thrilled through 
every atom of my being. It was the voice of Aline, who still murmured plaintively, 

1 Mercy, mercy ! ’ 

u A mocking laugh followed, and the voice of the slave owner—of the satanie De Souchd 
—replied, 1 Mercy! proud, beautiful, and accomplished ! When I have trampled you, soul 
and body, in that depth to which I would have wooed you with tenderness and kisses, I 
will sell you, mother and child ! and you shall not go together ! ’ 

11 A stroke from the lightning could scarcely have struck upon my brain with more 
appalling force. She—mother—and child ! What nameless crime—what brutal usage— 

2 Z 


182 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE 


what wordless outrage had been committed upon her! I had not the strength to have 
lifted up my weapon even if he had then offered to strike her. There ensued a long 
pause, and then something like the sound of a blow followed a few words that he had broken 
the silence by, and then there was a bound, and a fierce yell, and a body rolled on the floor. 
This destroyed the accursed spell in which I had been enthralled, and with a cry I leaped 
into the chamber. What a sight met my eyes ! It was enough to have turned me into 
stone. 

u I shall never, never forget it! On the ground, drawn up by the fierce convulsions of 
his death agony, he lay. Far in the breast, up to the haft, was the blue stiletto which the 
maddened girl had plunged in! On the ground, with death-dews on his ghastly and still 
beautiful face, half reclined I)e Souchd. It was the beauty of terror, so Satanic was its 
expression, which was heightened when his glazing eyes caught sight of me, and, with a 
curse that rang with a withering and diabolical expression of a hate that no death could 
quench, he fell forward on the rich carpet, on which a black pool was silently gathering. 

u Babbling and gibbering like an idiot—as indeed she had all at once become—the 
pallid cheeks having spots of blood on them, her white dress marked in the same hideous 
manner, and casting indescribable glances on the weapon she had plucked out, and on the 
Antinous form of him who now lay in his awful rest—there was Aline. Beautiful—but of 
a beauty that made the gazer shudder—she was. It went to my very heart—and perhaps 
prevented the sickening effects of the first terror that I felt—to behold her so utter a wreck. 
I had reason to know that he had made her a creature of ruin ; so outraged that I could have 
wished her dead, and he living. To see her mad was a new phase of the tragedy. 

u The chamber itself, the perfection of elegance, luxury, and coolness, was superbly 
furnished; and its white curtains, its gilded chairs and tables, its crimson couches, and the 
marbled veins of the walls and chimney-pieces, contrasted hideously with the objects it dis¬ 
played. The glare of the noonday sun was softened by green blinds and by the verandah, 
yet everything was startlingly distinct. The froth was even now working on the dead 
man’s blue, sharp lips. 

11 In a large cage some canaries chirped and fluttered about, and in another compartment 
were birds of paradise, cockatoos, &c., whose plumage were almost fabulous in their extraor¬ 
dinary display of colours. There was a piano-forte of rare work and exquisite tone, the melo¬ 
dies of which those dabbled fingers could have wakened up like a magic song. Completely 
fascinated, or rather frozen, for the moment, into an attitude of mingled horror and sur¬ 
prise, I had yet the opportunity of examining what I have here detailed, with a composure 
I never could afterwards comprehend. 

u But the alarm was soon given. Servants came, and my first impulse was to fly. 
Aline herself leaped forth and bounded into the woods. There came a trial—my evidence 
—the story—Aline’s condition—the mad mother of a dead child—all, in the course of time, 
proved the unexaggerated wickedness of him whose passions had thus plucked down death 
upon himself, and made of so magnificent a creature the min that I beheld, and now 























THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


183 


it had become my duty to watch over her, without, perhaps, being ever rewarded with a 
single look of recognition. 

u De Souche’s relatives, in their blind rage, would have wreaked their vengeance on 
her. They sold her, but, unknown to them, I purchased her. Carrying her away with me, 
and taking the proper steps to secure freedom for her in any case, I had her placed under 
the charge of a medical man, whose establishment was already famous for working ernes in 
mental disorders. Aline’s was a most hopeless case: from melancholy idiocy she flew into 
fits of raging madness, and ever before her lay the corpse of him she had slain—ever before 
her was the harrowing spectacle of the dying man. 

“ But what was to cure me ! I had neither vengeance nor expiation. I had lost all. 
From me she was as completely severed as though the grave held her, and I sought for 
relief in travel and absence. I mourned for her as for one that was dead, and I sometimes 
yearned for that sad consolation of going to her grave, and shedding tears or strewing 
flowers over it. 

u Months had gone by, and just as I was preparing for a long journey to the Rocky 
Mountains—anywhere, in fact,—I received a letter from my friend, stating that Aline had 
recovered her mental, at the expense of her bodily health. I was prepared for this; but, at 
the same time, I felt a singular depression coming over me. I deferred my journey, and 
hastened to her. Wan, weak, emaciated—the very spectre of her former self, yet spiritually 
beautiful— I found her lying in snowy sheets, looking like a corpse, and, apparently, waiting 
but to bid me farewell. There she lay—my heart’s adored—the crushed dove—the trodden 
lily—the greatly wronged—meek, submissive, prayerful—quite ready for her flight. 

u What passed between us I can remember well. It is written on my heart, but I never 
could write it down. She died in my arms. Her last sigh was breathed upon my bosom. 
Her last Avords Avere a blessing. Her last look, one of ineffable love. 

u Alas, Aline ! most unfortunate and most unhappy. In losing thee, I lost, for a long 
time, the sunshine and the breezes, and the world Avas a wilderness of unrest. Time has 
softened the poignancy of the pain—it has also strengthened the memory.” 

In a day or tAvo, Ralph himself, fatigued, but looking well and cheerful, came into the 
little inn where Ave stayed, and, without further loss of time, we started forth on a longer 
and a more perilous journey, (after haA r ing canvassed the different routes that so very much 
easier suggested themselves than the one selected,—the appalling Avastes and awful sub¬ 
limities of the Upper Alps,) by the sublime pass of the Mount St. Bernard, wdiich, with its 
sunny vales and dizzy chasms, its magnificent dogs, its hospice and its hospitalities, so wel¬ 
come and appreciable, are so well known that I need not recapitulate them ; and then we 
descended into the Sardinian plains, and trode the battle grounds where the Lombardian 
kings had fought so stoutly many a time for the iron crown, and Avhere the mercantile spirit 
of the south w~as cultivated into a science, the results of which are commemorated by 
Lombard Street, in the heart of the city of London, at this day. 



184 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Mp. 

Hail to thee, Italy! land of sun and beauty—land of liberty and despotism— ot 
slavery and freedom—of vices and of crimes—home of the arts—land of Dante and Tasso, 
but also of the Borgias—Queen! whose shores are decked with many diademed cities, but 
where also there is wretchedness and fear—Hail to thee ! 

So I thought murmuringly, as travelling through the plains of Lombardy, so opulent and 
so beautiful, we approached Milan, famous for its iron crown, which, however, is kept at 
Monza, some ten miles away, but which does possess Da Vinci’s great masterpiece, the “ Last 
Supper,” and with its cathedral, whose roof rises above a forest of pinnacles and smaller 
spires, boasts also of some three thousand statues within, together with other products of the 
artistic genius so lavishly bestowed upon her sons. 

Here, too, are palaces built by Leoni, Marini, and Cagnola. Their walls are covered 
with pictures by the greatest Italian masters. Relievos are there from the hands ©f 
Abertolli; Franchi and even Can ova have placed sculptures in their halls and saloons. 
Calani carved out the caryatides of the Royal Palace, and Appiani has left on the walls 
the finest conceptions of his fertile brain and brilliant pencil. 

Passing through this portal to the grandeur of architectural states, (so to speak,) we 
dashed gaily along the road, our vetturino rattling recklessly on a smooth road, fringed on 
either side with vines and olive-trees; and after a few stoppages at the different stages of 
our route, (with the additional stay of a few days at Mantua, where “Romeo” doomed 
himself to die,) we approached the walls of Florence, the birthplace of Americus Vesputius, 
Boccaccio, Machiavelli, Petrarch, Galileo, the great Sully, and that sublime incarnation of 
the arts of sculpture and painting, Michael Angelo!—names these of themselves sufficient 
to immortalize a city; but add to them, the grace, the beauty, the proud majesty of the city 
in itself, and it stands forth with characteristics as brilliant as they are unrivalled. Nature 
has joined herself with art in beautifying Florence; and as the softly-flowing Arno goes 
winding along the base of gentle hills covered with verdure and carpeted with flowers, 
one sees in an instant how suitable a dwelling-place for the Muses such a city must be. 
You lounge among the splendours of the Pitti or the Uffizzi palaces; you look on the starry 
hosts with eyes of love, as, standing on the top of Fiesole, you think of the old astronomer 
who was tortured by the Inquisition. In the next hour, you pass by the Venus of 
Cleomenes, and remain speechless before the Madonna of Raphael. 

Life in Florence, like life everywhere else in Italy, is always a luxury, when it is not 

















































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


185 


actual wretchedness. If you drive in the Cascine and the environs, the delicious climate 
charms you with its golden softness. Wander about the town, and here the sculpture 
gallery, the painter’s studio, the student’s chamber, with ever-cordial welcome, are open for 
you. There is the opera, in all its surpassing pomp and powerful magic, for the enthralling 
of the senses 5 there are the theatres, to amuse and distract; and there is company, high¬ 
born, courtly, polished, and cordial, to entertain and to please you. To all of these, in 
turns, a stranger soon finds his way; and the short time we stayed there had an effect as 
powerful on us, as on the knight, who, returning home after fighting bravely at the 
Crusades, stayed in silken dalliance with the daughters of Italy, and not till the wine of 
life was drunk to the lees, and pleasure became a poison, did he tear himself away. It 
was then too late. To remain in Florence, under certain favourable conditions, becomes 
a passion—an actual infatuation—in a very short time. 

In the bold tamelessness of her old republican days, Florence was at the veiy zenith of 
her fame. When the merchant princes of the house of the Medicis grasped her govern¬ 
ment, and began to convert her free institutions into an oligarchy, then she began to droop 
her stately head; and now she is lovely in the ruin which has made its home there, a captive 
fettered in chains, although the fair and servile head be crowned with flowers. Looking 
back, a grandeur more sombre than the city itself (now so indistinct in the purple haze 
of sunset), seems to loom over it, but which, at the same time, made her revered and feared, 
as also loved and worshipped. The very names I have written invoke something stately, 
and the shadows of her mighty dead stalk on with an air like those of the heroes of the 
Iliad. Their brows are very grave too, as if they mourned (Tver the degeneracy of their 
descendants. 

Here Alfieri wrote some of his noblest works, and exhibited a sterner tragic force of 
passion than any of his compeers, while Metastasio ranks no higher, in comparison, than 
the writer of operatic librettos. Alfieri is hard enough in style, it is true, and the action of 
his great dramas is cramped • but still, what vigour, what force, what deep groans, what 
pangs of anguish does he not delineate! While the Italian poetry, for the most part, is 
like the play of dulcimers, or the warbling of flutes, his voice breaks in like a trumpet blast, 
and startles the Sybartes who drowsily listen to the pleasing but effeminate piping. 

It was Florence that gave birth to Dante—he who, long after, used to walk through the 
streets of Verona, an exile, muffled, gaunt, and haggard, with something of a mournful 
grandeur stamped on his majestic brow, as if it had been scathed by the lightning. And 
it was after him that pale men and trembling women used to point, and say, shudderingly, 
in a subdued whisper, u Yonder is the man who went down into Hell! ” and this was 
written down in the Inferno. 

Tuscany has, on the whole, natural advantages which have been lavishly bestowed. 
Bosomed under the shelter of the Appenines, and traversed by the Arno, its fertility strives 
to outdo itself in clothing that which is always beautiful with still greater beauty. Stand 
on any of the hills to gaze upon the city, and gardens mingle with palaces, green uplands 

3 A 


186 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


rise beyond the towering edifices, giving twenty charming varieties to one picture, while 
a horizon of countless heights and leafy mountains forms a perfect frame for this gem, of 
which we finally took leave with so much regret. 

We went on to Leghorn, and took our passage by water to Civita Vecchia, as a variety 
in the journey, and proceeded towards Rome along the shore, through dreary wastes that 
had once been fields; and, after climbing an ascent, where the dome of St. Peter’s, with all 
its stupendous air of vastness, met the gaze, we entered one of the gates, passed the court of 
St. Peter, crossed the Tiber by the bridge of Adrian, and by temples and columned ruins 
we entered the Custom-house, and released thence, drove on to the Hotel de l’Europe, 
situated in the Piazza di Spagna. We were in Rome, and could scarcely realize the fact. 
We were in a city which has a circumference of thirteen miles, and whose churches, palaces, 
fountains, aqueducts, antiquities, and mins, bespeak its ancient greatness and its present 
magnificence,—magnificence rendered sacred by time and tradition. It would take months 
even to view its monuments, and years to become acquainted with it. How, then, is it 
possible to describe the indescribable ? To make St. Peter’s intelligible to the reader is no 
easy task, and I shall not attempt it. It occupied a century in its erection; was commenced 
by Bramante, carried on by Michael Angelo, and completed by Carlo Maderno; and cost 
more than forty-five millions of Roman crowns, each of which is, in round numbers, equal 
to our dollar. 

We traversed the Corso, the chief street of modern Rome, out of which, for a mile in 
length, squares, and flashing fountains, and stately palaces open,—and drove to the Forum, 
the very heart and centre of -the Roman world. You tread the Capitol, and thoughts which 
defy utterance fill the breast. In fancy you can see 

*' Horatius in his harness, 

Kneeling upon one knee,” 

hear the voices of Coriolanus, Cicero, the Gracchi, and twenty centuries are taken away 
from the world’s age. The Colosseum had the same effect upon us as upon all spectators, 
as we beheld it in all the softened glories of the moonlight; and while Ralph stole to the 
Barberini palace, to gaze on the Beatrice Cenci, painted by Titian, and elaborated with 
such appalling grandeur by Shelley, we rambled to the baths of Caracalla, and by the 
Appian way, among the tombs of the Scipios of Metella, and the household of the Cassars. 
All was wonderful, massive, grand, and antique, while above the city rose the gilded top 
of the noblest cathedral in the universe. It confounds the sense with its vastness. 

Here arc gathered together some of the richest treasures of ancient and modern art. 
To the former belong the Venus, the Apollo, and the Laocoon; to the latter appertain 
the sculptures of Michael Angelo and Canova, the Aurora of Guido, and the chef d'oeuvres 
of Raphael the divine, among thousands of inferior works, the worst of which would suffice 
to create a lasting reputation. 

The streets were different, too, from the streets of almost every other city, owing to the 
monks, nuns, ecclesiastics, and pope’s guards, in red, black, white, and grey, and gold, that 
















































































































































































• 1 































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


187 


went to and fro. Processions began in the morning, and ended at night; mourners and 
revellers met in parties at the corner of some square, and drew back from each other in a 
sort of terror. The strange, wild, striking faces—peasant or noble, bandit or cardinal, male or 
female—had also an indescribable interest in them for us. Restless, ever moving, ever 
changing, the busy phantasmatic crowds went moving, gliding by. Now it was a fray 
with knives drawn; now a monk was preaching out of a ruined archway; anon it was the 
language of love which flashed out of those magnificent eyes that have gone by. The next 
who comes, with a face white with rage, is seeking an enemy to slay him. 

One day we would visit the Villa Pamphili, to which are attached the most extensive 
pleasure-grounds in Rome. Another beheld us at the Colonna, Corsini, the Spada, or the 
Albani palaces, which latter contains the richest collection of antiquities of any other. We then 
would drive, perhaps, to the square Navona, which is under water on certain days (through 
the Jews’ Quarter, which is far better worth seeing cursorily than remaining long in, as its 
features in some respects are of a most repulsive cast). At other times the convents, galleries, 
chapels, studios, and other places, in which an hour could be pleasantly or profitably spent, 
would tempt us to roam among them, from the one to the other, for hours and even days 
together. One never sees enough of sights in Rome, and yet it is sight-seeing without end. 
It requires to be a man of some phlegm, too, in order to retain the memory of an object, since 
the next is so likely to obliterate the last. In this respect Dew bank was as precise and as 
methodical as a catalogue. 

At Tivoli, (the Tibur of Horace,) so remarkable for its wild and romantic scenery, its 
Cascatelles, and its sulphurous waters, which boil up the moment a stone is cast into it, we 
beheld those ruins shown as the site of the pleasant villas of Adrian and Macaenas, as also the 
tomb of Plautus Lucanus. Temples and trophies are in abundance, but he who enters the 
wretched town receives a lesson, and repeats his visit no more, except it be to the vicinity. 

Across part of the Campagna, treeless, houseless, and desolate, with here and there a 
solitary herdsman, we went to Frascati. Thence we saw the Alban mountains break out 
of their usual compact appearance, and villas and wooded grounds peeping from among 
them. In Tusculum we saw what remained of Cicero’s house, and found its old owner out. 

The scenic beauties we noticed coming back were of the highest order. Purple and 
gold, the sunlight bathed the ancient palaces, the Forum, the baths of Caracalla, and the 
crested hills, in an atmosphere almost fabulous, which became solemn in its very repose. 

On one occasion, as we were returning by some ruins which crown the Drive, on the 
Trinita de’Monte, between the Mons Sacer and the Porta Pia, seated on some broken 
columns was an old pilgrim, to whom we saw a peasant girl giving refreshment, with a 
face in which reverence for his age and office was mingled with a commiseration for his 
poverty. It was a picture pleasant to dwell upon, and it was a chiirming illustration of 
practical charity in a pious form. 

We heard the music of Palestrina in the churches, and the creations of Mozart at the 
opera, and from the awful paintings of Michael Angelo in the Sistine chapel, it was not far 


188 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


to go and offer our devotion to the enshrined Art, embodied in the matchless sculptures at 
the Vatican. If our tastes were in a sort, a contrariety, their variety made them infinitely 
pleasing, and no one ever thought of being weary; but we were beginning to stay at Rome 
too long. We saw by the crowds of idlers in our daily path, how faithfully the sketches of 
Pinelli were to nature. He is to the Roman, what Callot was—what Gavarni is, to the 
Parisian, and Cruickshank to the Londoners. 

These gorgeous villas, resplendent with the glories of the past, have interests of a still 
deeper kind to one who gazes on their pictures—the hero and the heroines of life’s romance, 
in which flowers and gold, and blood and anguish mingled with feverish joys, go to make 
up its sum. Cross their tapestried chambers, their perfumed boudoirs, at the latticed window 
of which the Roman maiden stealthily listened to her lover’s lute, and perchance beckoned 
him up as did the heroines of Boccaccio, or Juliet in the play, during the passion of her 
pure heart. On that threshold, where a spot is seen that never comes out, let them wash 
e’er so long, like the sanguine drops that stain the floor of Idolyrood—there the jealous man 
stabbed his foe. In that gloomy little chamber, turning from the staircase, more like a 
crypt than a lady’s tiring-room, another Ezzelin, jealous and grim, smote his beautiful young 
bride to death, driven to the act from doubt and false report, and then lived ever after 
a life of sorrow and remorse—that remorse which never pardons itself. In yonder square 
Rienzi harangued the people. Mingling among the crowd of boatmen on the Tiber—strong 
and brawny as an athlete, there first, amid shoutings and greetings, goes the prow of Csesar 
Borgia’s boat. He races with them, becomes popular, and goes to a feast to poison those 
in his way. Thus it is that every nook and corner writes for itself a history in the mind, 
and the very stones are eloquent. 

The Porta Maggiore is one of the ruined celebrities of the Eternal City. On the east of 
the city, where four roads diverge, the Collatine, the Pramestine, the Palatine, and the 
Labicana, are to be found the crumbled remains of several antique gates, some of them 
distinctly known. One of these is the gate above mentioned, and was formerly a monument 
of the Claudian aqueduct carried over the high road, and suggesting the uses from which 
it derived its name. The grandeur of what remains derives its stateliness from the vastness 
of the work with which it was connected, and as a monumental entrance into a city nothing- 
can be more imposing, not even the Porta del Popolo, the largest and noblest entrance 
which modern Rome possesses. 

Having paid one more visit to St. Peter’s, which continues to be oppressive in its almost 
illimitable vastness each time the stranger visits it, and having made a flying tour round 
the chief thoroughfare, with a last glimpse of its glories, we found ourselves a day after 
traversing the Campagna, marvelling at the contrast shown between the fertile environs of 
the city and this desolate region we now were crossing. 

Leaving Frascati far on our left, we turned towards the south-west, and at last arrived 
at, and crossed the terrible Pontine marshes, on the way to Terracina, where everybody 
gets robbed by the brigands, and which makes the journey to Naples so full of a dreadful 









































* 


























































































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


189 


charm. This appalling waste being very subject to inundations, and always swampy, 
the activity of the sun draws from it a pestilential exhalation, that is noxious to every living 
thing that moves on its surface. Its herbage is like that upon a u blasted heath.” Whoever 
sleeps on it is likely never to awaken, and the few that dwell upon its borders have a pallid 
and spectral appearance. No one should cross these marshes until he shall have well fortified 
his organization with food and wine; and Ralph, on the day we passed it, having made but 
an indifferent breakfast ere we started, was affected with nausea and headache. Before 
sunset even, the dew begins to rise like a cloud, and the whole horizon is obscured by a 
vapour such as one would imagine to arise from some region where sorcerers and witches 
dwelt. 

Passing the Appenines, which lie some five leagues distant, we crossed a canal by a 
beautiful marble bridge, as also the river Uffente, and arrived at Terracina, (anciently belong¬ 
ing to the Volscians,) so famous for banditti; and leaving this last town of the Papal district, 
entered the territory of the King of Naples, and went along part of the ancient Appian way, 
which led to Capua, and entered Mala. Thence to Gaeta, once so celebrated for its wines, 
where we halted for a short time to refresh ourselves, and recover from the accursed breath 
of the marshes, where we wandered about for a while, previous to embarking in a small 
brigantine, a piratical craft in fact, bound for Naples, on board of which we met with an 
adventure worthy of the pen of Dumas, but which, for the present moment, I am compelled 
to reserve. 

In our ramble we met a blind old hermit, that should have won the u cock’d hat and 
sandal shoon,” who was being led over a little wooden bridge crossing a rivulet, (where it 
came from, Heaven knows,) by a little fellow, whose arch countenance, lighted up by a smile 
of intelligence and an entreating glance, won for him a handful of small coin, and who, 
after a cordial salutation from ourselves, and a benediction from the venerable padre, led on 
his charge with cheerful triumph. 

Our voyage lasted nearly a week, since we were compelled to visit some of the islands 
that stud the sea, and become acquainted with their people in a way we had little antici¬ 
pated ; and it was only after a smart chase from one of the armed craft which are placed in 
these waters in anticipation of such a duty, and a tremendous fight of some dozen or fifteen 
minutes, we were boarded, and released from a position that had threatened to be attended 
with perils of the most imminent kind. 

Finally, we arrived at Naples, and having passed the ordeal of the Custom-house, which, 
I must say, was rendered somewhat lighter to us, on account ot the danger and hardships 
we had undergone, (since it took but little to exculpate us from all connection with the 
rascals who had kidnapped us, though we had to appear against them at a tual by which 
a few were condemned to the galleys,) we took up our abode at the Villa di Londra, 
and made up our minds to repay ourselves for the time we had lost with all possible 

industry. 

3 B 


190 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Naples. 

With a full view of the beautiful bay of Gaeta, and th’e Mediterranean expanding its 
glaucous waters on our right, we came in sight of Naples, which is situated, as few other 
cities are, on the declivity of a range of hills whose shores are washed by the sea. These 
shores encircle a bay some sixteen miles in length, and as many in breadth. Nothing can 
be nobler than the aspect of the roadstead, which, being dotted with ships and smaller craft 
of all kinds, for a hundred miles, has a most brilliant and attractive air. Opposite the 
harbour is the island of Capri, so famous for the orgies of Tiberius, in which the ruins of 
his sybarite palaces are still found. On the right is the coast of Possilipo, on the left lies 
Portici, and towards the north the cone of Vesuvius is distinctly seen, with a fine line of 
blue smoke mounting upward like the streamer of a ship of war. 

The chief street, the Toledo, three-quarters of a mile long, is ornamented with superb 
buildings, interspersed with splendid shops. That leading to the Capo di Monte, over a 
very fine bridge, is also extremely handsome; but, in general, the streets are narrow, very 
dirty, and infested with beggars, pickpockets, and armed police, who do but little to prevent 
depredations. The fortifications, with the castle of St. Elmo, and the Pharos, with the 
dockyards and magazines, are well worthy of a visit; and the churches, of a strikingly 
beautiful architecture, and decorated with pictures by some of the greatest Italian artists, 
attract the traveller’s attention. The Villa Royale, the noble palaces, institutions, squares, 
and those indispensable appendages to great cities, Avhere the climate is so enervating—the 
fountains, are amongst the handsomest of their kind in all Italy; while the theatres, (San 
Carlo taking precedence,) are not to be surpassed, since the opera of Naples stands deservedly 
high, though other theatrical entertainments do not reach those of Rome or Florence. One 
of the most popular amusements is that offered by the Improvisatori, who collect eager and 
attentive crowds around them, while others recite and expound the poems of Ariosto or 
Tasso, with as much grace as judgment. Punch, too, but in an inferior form, is a popular 
amusement of the people, and I have seen groups convulsed with laughter at the gross 
drolleries of these wooden actors. 

The promenades and environs of Naples own no superior in their way. The prospects 
from these latter are so boundless, so beautiful, and so dreamy, as the sea and the sky meet 
far away over the islanded Mediterranean. One of our visits was paid to Vesuvius, which 
has so much of the lovely and the terrible blended together. Viewed from across the bay, 
it is like a picture from the hand of some great artist. 








■ 


















THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


191 


We passed Portici, visited Herculaneum, and rode to a mound of ashes, when we 
dismounted to follow the guides. We ascended to the highest platform by the lips of the 
crater; and while the horrors of Phlegethon were dimly seething below, over the town, and 
seaward—waveless, calm, golden—the prospect was absolutely Elysian. Smoke, ashes, and 
sulphureous exhalations circled us; and when we had seen our fill, for the volcano was not 
active, we descended to the lower platform, and having pledged ourselves, and the mountain 
too, in a draught of the famous Lachryma Christi , we returned to the city. 

Pozzuoli, Baia, that looks like a land of enchantment yet,—Canae, which reminded 
us of the sybil,—the Grotte del Cane, and Paestum, in turns, were visited by us; and we 
traversed the ruins of the ancient Tyrrhenians with the antique present to our fancies. At 
Stabise and Pompeii, the days of Sallust were recreated; and the islands, celebrated by one 
circumstance or other for their intimate connection with the past, reminded us of Roman 
luxury and patrician pride, that erected their temples of pleasure in these several places, 
and where the consuls and great men of Rome used to spend their summer seasons, as in 
England or Europe they do at baths, watering-places, and in amusements quite as frivolous 
and equivocal. 

Paestum, whose fertile luxuriance is famed by the poet in its u twice-blowing roses,” 
infects one with its delicious languor. The city of Neptune has, however, only its serene 
heavens, its wild olive-trees, and its sunny sea below, left to tell us what it was. The 
roads to Baia, Pompeii, Resina, and other neighbouring places,—so celebrated for their 
antiquities, their ruins, and the curious evidences of refined sensualities and polished 
debaucheries which are dug out of them,—could be easily filled with bigce. and other 
chariots, bearing the scented and purple-clad coxcombs of the Imperial age of Rome to the 
arena, the theatre, or the villa of some gourmand , whose cookery must have been as famous 
as that of modern diplomatists. Nowhere, perhaps, does the beauty of the past blend with 
the beautiful of the present with such a harmony of accord. Rome is magnificent, and 
would be matchless if Rome were Ostia, with the sea at her feet; but Naples is Queen of 
bays and blue waters, and marble relics, vineyards, hills, and mountains. Beggary and 
indolence crowd her streets for all that; and it is strange to remark how these half-clad 
wretches, with their gay patches, assist in the composition of the picture. 

We had spent our time at Florence, Rome, and Naples, in a round of enjoyments, to 
which Nature and Art contributed more, perhaps, than they could do at any other place. 
Fine skies, noble ruins, charming scenery, splendid modern edifices; the people—male and 
female, fair and dusky, grave and gay, high and low—moving amid those things dedicated 
to Fame and to the Past, gave a strange life to every step we traversed ; and it was with the 
brain reeling under the intoxication of the dazzling scenes in which we had lately mingled, 
that we bent our way towards the mountains, intending to traverse Calabria, as far as the 
Gulf of Giogia, in order to take Sicily in our way. 

It was during a somewhat dangerous and difficult journey in the wild mountainous 
region that I met with an adventure, which, as it is illustrative of Calabrian brigandage, 


192 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


—a pursuit allied with smuggling,—obtains a considerable share of patronage among them, 
and which is handed down—crime, consequence, successes, reverses, plunder, wealth, or 
penury, &c., as the case may be—from father to son. 

This country, in some places lovely, sylvan, with fine waters, well-tilled fields, and 
noble woods, is also grand, rugged, and mountainous. It produces delicious fruits and 
honey, and is rich, in some departments, in corn and cattle. We had entered, however, 
into a wild and inhospitable region, and found greater difficulties to contend against than 
we had anticipated, and the following sketch of an experience that I had of the people will 
more faithfully depict my impressions of Calabria, generally speaking, than any notes of 
travel that I could have collected, or that, given in the way of commentary for the informa¬ 
tion of my readers, could by any possibility do. 

We had arrived at Chiaravalle, a little town south of Squilace, which lay under a spur 
of the southern Appenines ; and during this journey, whether through exposure to alter¬ 
nations of a season that was by turns humid and hot—hot as a day in Florida, for instance, 
when the sun is in the ascendant,—or whether it was owing to previous fatigue, excite¬ 
ment, or the sudden alternations of the variable atmosphere, Ralph was seized with a sud¬ 
den illness, which terminated in fever, and which necessitated our stay in a hotel full of 
the most startling contrasts of wretchedness and plenty, Delicious wines, grapes of an 
unrivalled flavour, with cool and pleasant fruits, were to be had in plenty ; but the u flesh- 
pots ” were nothing to boast of, and bread was at a premium. This inn, like a palace, was 
furnished with worm-eaten furniture and ragged hangings, and we were infested with 
insects and vermin, whose voracity wrung many an emphatic curse from Dewbank, and 
certainly no blessings from myself; but every attention else was paid to the sick man, and 
we watched over him in turn, while the physician we had sent for was assiduous in his atten¬ 
tions—only God preserve all from the drenching and the phlebotomy that the unhappy 
Ralph went through. We saw, however, that the course of treatment was pursued by a man 
of no contemptible skill, and, though he had a heretic under his charge, he could not have 
been more anxious for his recovery had he been a pillar of the holy catholic church of Rome. 

Well, Ave did the best we could—Dewbank and I—and we sat up with our patient in 
turn, when one day, as I was released from my self-imposed duty, and the energetic Yankee 
took my place, I seized my gun, which had been for some time put aside in its case, and 
having given it a hasty cleaning, and furnishing myself with a flask of strong cherry 
brandy, tobacco, powder and shot, and so on, I sallied forth for the day, intending to go a 
few leagues into the mountains, where I had been told there was a vast lake, or silent tarn, 
on the margin of which a great number of wild fowl of exquisite flavour was to be found, 
some of which 1 was desirous of obtaining for poor Ralph, whose appetite was becoming 
voraciously sharp, but who could not enjoy the execrable cookery of the hotel, by reason of 
the quantity of oil which they persisted, in spite of all remonstrance, to drown it with. 

The weather was fine, and the air sharp and bracing, and, full of spirits and elasticity, 

I had accomplished a dozen miles, through wood and ravine, and Avas climbing up a steep 


iaNJJON' PJUNTOfG AND FUBUaHlNS COMPANT 






























THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


193 


mountain path which led to the lake, where I sat down to rest myself a while, and, after a 
draught from my flask, and a very primitive meal, I began to look around me. 

Breasting the steep side where the path went winding over the verge of a rugged defile, 
that grew steeper at every step, till nothing was seen below but a mass of abrupt rocks, 
waving pines in the depth of the dark green shade, and through which there went a thin 
line of silver, from whence came a subdued sound—the sound of a distant cascade, and the 
rush of an impetuous torrent—so that I knew I had arrived at a spot some thousand feet 
removed from below. I had not paid any attention to the landscape around me till 
that moment when arrived at a little plateau—a rocky platform covered with mossy grass, 
and now above me, the wild and savage grandeur of the scenery struck me as I rose and 
went on. 

There were grim grey basaltic rocks, from which clumps of stunted pines arose at times 
with frantic aspect. There were the remains of old lava streams—as if there had been a 
volcano far away above—all now hardened as iron, and wearing, on the whole, an aspect 
of great desolation. Frowning pinnacles, still thousands of feet above, were tinted with 
edges of blinding white. I saw that I was approaching the region of perpetual snows, and 
the cones of Mount Leone began to flash in the distance. I was close to the silent sides of 
the black and tideless lake ; and on the summits of these volcanic table lands, sure enough, 
broken and dark and jagged, like the sides of a crater, but fringed with a rank growth of 
rushes and water-flags, and a dense wood of gnarled pines and firs, there stretched away 
this almost solemn pool, while flocks of water-fowl, with snowy plumes, started up from 
their lairs, as I first changed the character of this striking solitude with my presence. 

Nothing could be more impressive than the panorama which I, for a few moments, 
leisurely surveyed. Down eastward lay the steep mountain sides, the rocky passes fringed 
with green, and, in some places, the far-off valley appearing like a sea of verdure. Town 
and village, with quaint white convent towers, and pinnacles glittering in the sun, dotted 
the plain. While westward, the bare and blasted heights rose from over the sullen surface 
of the waveless pool, over whose face the birds were now skimming, till, dim and dusky, 
the iron-grey of the northern horizon bounded it—one vast dead sea, on whose solitary 
shores I strolled half fearfully—the awful solitude of the spot making me fancy myself, for 
a moment, Sadok seeking for the waters of oblivion—and there they lay, coldly blue, 
almost fearfully transparent, and stretching away from my feet. It was a spot whereon 
to celebrate a witch revelry—a Brocken sabbath—and I might have been one of the first 
of the terrible visitants who had arrived before the proper time. 

However, I endeavoured to shake off the oppression which this desolation forced upon 
me. As I am not a poet, nor particulary imaginative, I was more annoyed than disposed 
to yield to the influences of the picture, and so I loaded my gun, and, selecting a batch on 
the border of the lake, I let bang at them, and, amidst a scream from those that rose in the 
air, I had the satisfaction of seeing two drop—my well-selected charge of duck-shot having 
been effective. But the echoes of that shot, ringing in the wild barbaric solitude, pealed 

3 C 


194 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


like dismal bells tolling in a church tower, amid the crevices of those rocks, with a metallic 
iron-like sound, their very surfaces being of a ferruginous hue, added to the spectral nature 
of the illusion. I had never experienced anything so dreary to sight and hearing in my 
life. The .very sunshine that bathed the valley being denied this spot, as though it had 
been placed under some dreadful curse. 

I plucked up courage—for, to say the truth, it was needed—and whistling a “ Yankee 
Doodle,” which actually seemed to be trying to be jocular in the presence of ghastliness 
and ruin, I walked on in order to pick up my birds. Arriving at a ridge, I was startled to 
find that I had to descend—or make a detour —into a riven fissure that still bore traces of 
volcanic energy, and that this descent, on trial, was not the easiest thing in the world. 
Still I persisted, and having slung my gun on my shoulder, after some moments of scram¬ 
bling, during which I was not certain but that the false ashy-looking soil might give way 
under me, I arrived at the opposite side, and prepared to seize my prize, which had fallen 
several yards off amid the moss and vegetation that lined the sombre lake. 

All at once, as I was rounding a crag in order to approach the spot where my game lay, 
I gave an involuntary cry, and started back in mortal terror, for there I saw an object that 
made the blood cold at my heart for an instant, and actually paralysed me, so that I stood 
gaping in mute terror on the spectre that had raised my alarm. 

It was the figure of a man, clad in a barbarous dress of soiled and ragged sheepskin. 
The face was ghastly, dark, and bronzed, only that the horrible pallor upon it, changed its 
hue to something livid as corruption. The arms and legs, partially bare, were attenuated 
as with famine, and I thought unconsciously of those appalling pictures which some old 
painters are said to have executed in the charnels. Black matted hair, and a long beard— 
the parted lips showing the teeth less like ivory than bone—that hue which, it is said, the 
agonies of death impress upon them, added to the startling hideousness of the grisly thing. 
I knew not whether I was looking on the corpse of a human creature or not. A rude gun 
lay on the ground, as it had fallen out of his grasp. A belt held a naked knife, and a 
powder-horn and shot-belt were attached to his primitive jacket, -while worn, home-made 
sandals partially sheltered his bleeding feet. 

The next moment I recovered myself, and, with a call, advanced towards him. He 
made no movement, and I placed my hand on his breast. I thought I felt a fluttering 
beneath. Famine, thirst, and weariness, suggested themselves to me. A hunted outlaw, 
perhaps, had there failed after escaping his pursuers. I took some water in the hollow of 
my hand, and, mingling a few drops from my own flask with it, lifted up his head, applied 
it to his lips, and then bathed his matted forehead. 

He breathed, to my great joy ; and instinctively as his feeble hand touched my flask, he 
applied it to his lips, and took a draught before I could hinder him, which would have 
turned the brain of a seasoned old “ bo’swain.” I thought it would have killed him. On 
the contrary, he sat up, and, as his glittering and feverish eyes fell upon me, a scowl dark¬ 
ened his face, and his hand sought his knife ; but the consciousness that I had done him an 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


195 


act of kindness, and reading a certain sympathy in my face, perhaps—not the most mobile 
in the world, however—proved to him that I was not an enemy at least, and his hand fell 
again. 

I opened my capacious game-bag, and took out a fowl, a paper of salt, and a piece of 
bread, and with some garlic, approached him with cheering words, which I endeavoured to 
pronounce in the frightful patois of the mountains, and placing them on a stone beside him, 
with my flask, still well supplied—though I will not name what it would hold—signified to 
him to fall to, while I sat on a rock opposite, dividing my attention between him and 
lighting a cigar. 

For a moment or two he stared strangely on me, then glanced on the food, while across 
his beard and pallid face there swept conflicting emotions. He seemed like one that was 
offered food by the hand of an enemy, and was determined to resist to the last; but hunger 
was all-powerful. He seized the fowl, ate bread, salt, garlic—all, in an amazingly short 
space of time ; and when he had washed these down with another draught of the cherry 
brandy, I, without a word, handed him a cigar and a light, which, with a phlegm that did 
credit to his philosophy, he instantly seized and lighted, and presently he was smoking 
with a zest and relish which actually pleased me to behold. Several minutes elapsed 
before he spoke. 

u A few minutes more,” he said, in an impetuous, deep voice, 11 and I should have been 
dead—dead of hunger; but I don’t know, by the Pope! whose hounds have been chasing 
me, that it was a service after all. You—may be—you—are-” He paused. 

u An American,” I said; 11 a traveller—an idler—come up here to shoot a few birds.” 

II Ah, you are a man,” was the reply; u I owe you my life, and I have eaten bread and 
salt with you ; but ”—and here another change so strange came over his face that I was 
startled, and asked him what was the matter. 

11 Nothing, nothing,” he said, in a tone of hasty embarrassment; 11 but in this inhospi 
table region—no guide—a stranger—you may miss your way—be overtaken by the dark¬ 
ness—meet with brigands.” 

u Brigands! ” I echoed ; “ the devil! That would be more romantic than agreeable. 
Are there brigands about here then?” 

A strange smile was on his thin lips, as he puffed from between them a volume of 
smoke from his cigar; and as his eye fell upon his carbine, mine followed it, and then 
something like a knowledge of the dangers I might encounter in these mountain solitudes 
fell upon me, and an uneasy sensation began to fill my breast. Besides, I heard, too, that 
the Calabrian brigands were oftentimes very ferocious and revengeful, especially if disap¬ 
pointed in their prey, and had, before now, given a poor devil of a traveller a few inches of 
cold steel to digest, if the contents of his purse happened to disappoint them. 

u Brigands,” he repeated evasively j u pooh ! there are brigands everywhere.” 

I then observed his condition, remembered his remark about being hunted, and felt 
satisfied that here was a veritable specimen before me. The moment this conviction came, 



196 


'J'HE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


I grew perfectly quiet and at ease, “ for,” thought I, “ if he were ten times a brigand, he 
will not attack a man who has assisted him in such extremity and though I never looked 
on a man who combined within himself every outward aspect of truculent ruffianism, whose 
hollow and hungered features expressed ferocity, as well as his lowering eyes indicated the 
presence of wild devouring passions, I had no fear of him—still less a doubt. 

It is true, that, physically speaking, I was more than a match for him—better armed, in 
better condition, and so on ; but how did I know but that he had comrades within hail! 
But no, he could not have, or surely they would not have left him there to die ; and the 
reverberations of my gun would have brought any companions into view that he might 
have had. All this time I was watching his wan and haggard face, and I felt sure that 
he must have endured, for many days, the greatest possible privations. 

u Have you no friends near here ?” I asked at length. 

He looked up a moment, and I fancied that his eyelids trembled. Then he burst into 
a laugh, bitter and snarling. “Friends!” he said ; “ but I know what you mean. There 
are none here at present, and you may reach the foot of the valley before the day closes in, 
safely and without molestation—only, after that, I warn you it is unsafe.” 

“ Unsafe !—what, to come here and shoot birds !” 

11 1 am hunted by the sbirri—our holy father the Pope wants me. I am obliged to 
dwell in the mountains—that’s all! ” And this was the quiet way in which he told me 
that he was a robber—perhaps an assassin ! 

“ Can I assist you any further ? ” I asked in turn. 

He appeared more surprised than grateful; but he tried to rise up, and staggered to his 
feet. “ By the fiend,” he growled out, “ I am weak as a child, and my knees are like water. 
However, you want some birds; come, you are a good comrade, let me see if I can help 
you in return ; ” and reaching forward to pick up his gun, he would have fallen, but that 
I caught and supported him. 

I began now to be seriously disturbed for his safety, and, if truth be told, for my own 
also. Across the lake I saw the roof of a hut, which had been rudely put together for the 
purpose of shelter on some occasion, and, pointing to it, I told him to lean upon me while 
I led him thither, till I could manage to send him help. 

“ The dogs would seize the wolf now,” he muttered, with a grim laugh, u though they 
had not a tooth among them ; and if you were to whisper of it in the valley below, the 
stones might blab of me. The very air,” he added, with a blanched and scared look, 
“ sometimes turns accuser and betrays.” His words so directly indicated the possession 
of some terrible secret—the weight of a deep remorse—the residue of a heavy crime—that 
I drew back a moment from him; but, seeing the deadly pallor on his face, compassion 
conquered the new instinct, and I assisted him on by the rugged shore of the dismal lake 
in the direction of the hut, which we soon attained, when he cast himself down upon some 
dried grass, like one in the throes of death, and again I had recourse to the panacea, which 
1 had already found so useful. 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


197 


His iron constitution, however, had conquered privation and danger. I poured half of 
the brandy left in his own dried flask—gave him two or three cigars, some tinder, the 
remaining contents of my wallet, and asked him what I could farther do. 

“ I am an Ishmaelite, at war with all,” he said ; “ but you have given me food and aid 
—I have taken bread and salt with you, and I would peril my life for yours with even more 
goodwill than I would have put my carbine to your head, had we met otherwise. 1 owe 
you a debt—I will try and pay it to some one. Leave me ; I am safe enough. An hour’s 
rest, and I shall recover; thanks to this gourd of yours. Do you hasten from hence, for 
there may be danger.” 

u Of what kind ?” I asked. 

“From losing your way—from the closing eve—from wild fellows who prowl about 
when the stars are muffled. Take the path that leads down the gorge ”—he pointed to it 
from the doorway. “ It will save you a considerable distance ; and if the blessing of one 
whose hands have been ruddy and red—on whose soul there weighs a heaA r y load of blood 
—be of avail, take it and go ! ” He spoke wildly, almost fiercely. I could scarcely tell 
whether he was mad or really guilty. 

“ But shall I not send any one to you?” I asked in a hesitating manner. 

“ Not unless you would see the vultures feast upon my carcase, or my head roll in the 
basket. Adio! ” and he motioned me away. I went, and soon found the path, pondering 
on what I had seen, forgetting my wild fowl, and prepared to see brigands starting from 
every rock that jutted out in my wild mountain path. Once or twice I turned round to 
look for the hut. At last it was out of view ; and the sight of some noble fowl sailing past 
me towards the pool, recalled me to my previous purpose. At any cost—my wallet so full 
on coming, and now quite emptied, must not go back in the same condition; so—bang— 
bang—I fired, and soon its collapsed sides began to fill out again. 

Descending the slope of the mountain, I had lost sight of the unutterable dreariness of 
the summit; and lost, for a time, in the excitement of the sport, I began to think of my 
whereabouts, and of my return ; besides, I was growing hungry, and the remembrance of the 
poor wretch I had left filled me with pity and remorse—this latter feeling arising from the 
consideration that I had not taken any particular pains to find him aid and help, however 
much I might excuse myself on the score of inability, not having met a single living soul 
besides himself in that desolate region ; and so weary and apprehensive, as the afternoon 
was waning, and I was in an unfamiliar path, I shouldered my bag, grasped my gun, and 
set off in good earnest to reach the little town whence I had started, before the evening 
shadows fell. I had gone by many crooked and devious ways, sometimes up, oftenest down¬ 
wards, when, to my consternation, I found that I had lost my way in earnest—if such it 
could be called—considering, at the same time, that I had never traversed the ground be¬ 
fore ; but it required no conjuror to tell me that I had missed the path which my director 
had evidently intended me to take. 

Wild and wooded, rocky, and full of deep defiles, with massive crags and inaccessible 

3 D 


198 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


steeps beetling around, the savage character of the scene was Salvator Rosa-like in the 
extreme. I fancied, for a moment, that I was on something like a track, when a peal of 
muttering thunder above warned me that a storm was brewing; and, to my dismay, on look¬ 
ing upward, there lay a black cloud, increasing and darkening over the very cone of the 
mountain, from which a few flashes began to issue, and I made no doubt that I was about 
to be caught in one of those sudden and impromptu storms which characterize the mountain 
scenery of the Appenines, as well as other lofty regions. a Oh ! for mine inn now,” I 
thought, when, lo ! the next moment, snugly sheltered under a vast rock, far beneath which 
I heard a torrent thundering fearfully down—a torrent of the Marepetame, in fact—and 
situated in a broad and guarded ledge overhanging the abyss, but secured by a stone wall, 
hidden with the tendrils of the wild vine, there stood the prettiest and most picturesque 
brigand-haunted-looking tavern it had ever been my luck to see! I paused a moment, taken 
quite aback. I wanted a haven to shelter in, and there it lay before me, with the door 
invitingly open ; but I was in no hurry to advance. 

I had been at least four hours in arriving there, and, fagged and tired as I was, some¬ 
thing like instinct held me back, and a dread came upon me. J heard voices come from 
the house—rough, unmusical voices, heavy with wine, and more blasphemous too than 
would have been generally approved of. “ Have I fallen among thieves ? ” was my 
involuntary query, when, glancing to the window, I saw a grim bearded face spectrally 
staring at me ; and, seeing that I was discovered, I put on a bold face, entered the room, 
and sat myself down in a chair with a free and easy air—my gun being between my 
knees. 

The room was large, but well lighted, and furnished in a rude, substantial manner. 
Around a table covered with wine stains, and supplied with drinking vessels, sat four men, 
whose ruffianly faces, naked knives, and carbines, indicated at once that they were contra¬ 
bandists or robbers—perhaps both. The host, a villanous-looking, large man, stared at 
me as if I had been an ogre—perhaps he was surprised, and not over-agreeably, at seeing 
a stranger in his out-of-the-way hostelry. One of the fellows was flourishing his hand aloft, 
and bringing it down on the table till the vessels rang again, he shouted, u Cos-petto ! 
his teeth chattered like castanets as Drome’s blade went into his heart.” 

a Maledizione! ” growled another as I was seen — u what’s here, a spy! Look out, 
Simon-” 

u A stranger,” I said, as cooly as 1 could; and then I told them, without taking breath, 
of my rencounter on the mountain, and how and where 1 had left the hunted outlaw. 

u It’s Drome himself,” said one, and he rose and departed. Meantime, after a few 
words uncouthly spoken, and while I was looking on these fellows, who might at any 
moment be my pillagers or my assassins, I demanded some food and a draught of wine. 
I was not deceived, however, in the fancy that my kindness to this amiable Dromk had not 
been quite thrown away. After a while, I threw down a coin, and bade the landlord take 
pay—asking him, at the same time, the nearest way to the town where my friends were. 



THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


199 


A few words in a low voice passed among them, and a meaning look. “ Signior must 
not depart yet,” said one, very decisively: u he will lose his way again ; by-and-by 
one of us will guide him ; ”—and I felt as chill at the moment as if an icy bolt had been 
shot through my heart. There was no fear of mistaking this fellow’s significant hint. I 
made the best of it, however; said I should be glad of a guide as speedily as possible ; and 
taking out my cigar case, flung half a dozen on the table, and lighted one myself. In half 
an hour I found myself playing cards, and pledging healths with them, and my advance¬ 
ment in their good graces fluctuated as I won or lost. I was certainly in a most delicate— 
a desperate position ; but I was cool too, and was prepared to defend myself at the very 
first outbreak. 

It was needed. All at once one ruffian, with a hideous oath, sprang over the table, 
knife in hand. I drew back, and received him with a well-planted blow which helped him 
with an impetus that dashed his head against the stone fire-place, with a violence that made 
me fear the skull of this explosive piece of human tigerhood was fractured. A couple of 
carbines were at my breast, but 1 had already seized my gun ; I fired incautiously, and my 
finger was on the second trigger, when the door was dashed open, and in rushed the pallid 
spectre I had saved—Dromh himself, followed by the individual who had gone forth after 
my relation, in search of him as I had fancied. 

“ Per Christo sano /” he yelled out; 11 if a hair of his head be hurt, I will hunt you like 
a tiger—I will be a vampire to you. I have eaten bread and salt with him—he is a friend, 
and a stranger—he saved my life—down with your guns, or fire on me ; ” and, sure enough, 
in five minutes there was harmony instead of bloodshed, while the broken head of the fel¬ 
low I had saluted was wrapped up. I found myself absolute master over these fierce fellows, 
who use the knife on the least provocation. It may easily be imagined how I used my 
privilege, for in two hours after I found myself seated vis-a-vis to Dewbank—after a hearty 
meal upon some of the birds I had shot, by-the-by—while Ralph lay reclining on a sofa, 
listening with unmitigated interest to my adventure in the mountains ; for the latter had 
passed the crisis of his disorder, and was beginning the first stage of his convalescence. 

“ What a pity you did not stay to see the sequel of this interesting Drome’s story,” said 
Ralph ; in reply to which I gave him a look highly expressive of my gratitude. 

While we stayed at Chiaravalle, Dromh was taken, however, and died upon the wheel, 
after making a very edifying confession, the substance of which was to the following 
effect:— 

Dromh was the son of a small landed proprietor, whose ambitious ideas on behalf of his 
son, without any very definite aim, had resulted in an excellent education. Like most of the 
natives of this explosive and congreve-rocket region, where the blood boils up to murder-heat 
in an instant, Dromh’s father had a deadly feud with a rival neighbour, which had, at 
various times, received an accelerating impulse, and as their quarrel had been handed down, 
so did they hand their hate to their children—Dromh’s father’s to the youth, and the other 
to his daughter Francisca, who was as beautiful as a Madonna. The story is very much 


200 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


in the Romeo and Juliet style. The two young ones fell in love—a headlong, violent, 
terrible passion. Francisca was locked up in a convent; the youth sought to abduct her 
from thence, and failed. Her father aided in his capture, and he was degradingly punished. 
Added to this, her father meeting with Drome’s father somewhere in the mountains, they 
fought, and Francisca’s parent cast his foe into the gulf below. He, in turn, was seized, but 
escaped, and it became a duty on Drome’s part to avenge his father’s death, in addition to 
the sense of his own raging wrongs ; but the assassin’s daughter found means to plead for 
him. In effect, Francisca grew broken-hearted, and, dying, sent for Dromb to give him 
her last blessing, and to soften his now indurated nature by the sight of her who had been 
to him a star so brilliant, but, at the same time, so fatal. It was too late, however. 

When he came she lay dead, and he gazed on the white angelic face with an emotion 
that raised the slumbering volcano of his soul into the very madness of grief. The descrip¬ 
tion given of his tremendous agony, spoke, with fearful eloquence, of the intense sufferings 
under which he laboured. 

He felt that she would have extorted from him an oath, which he would have kept. 
He was free now to be revenged; and when he went forth into the -world again, it was 
with an oath recorded in the book of doom. He met Francisca’s father, and the blade of 
his knife expiated the wrongs under which he had laboured, and consummated the revenge 
for which he had panted. 

Ht * * *r •» % 

A fortnight after, we were daring the dangers of Scylla and Charybdis, and sailing 
down the Faro of Messina towards Etna, and the ancient Syracuse, which, retaining few 
vestiges of its ancient greatness, or rather reputation, possesses a fine University, and is one 
of the finest and best fortified harbours on the Mediterranean. Of Etna, whose ruffg-ed 
cone we saw with great distinctness, since we almost passed its base, I have little to say, 
as the volcano was at rest, and only a thin line of curling smoke distinguished it from any 
other mountain of the same cone-like form. By-the-by, I remark that this funnel shape is 
the distinguishing form of volcanoes—with a vast interior, where the Phlegethon of fire and 
matter boils, and a narrow aperture, which, if it does not serve as a chimney, is, at least, 
equivalent to a safety-valve, as else the compressed gases would rend the very sides of the 
solid mountain, and multiply its destructive energies; and thus Etna makes but a small 
figure in my journal. 

We then made for Taormina, the situation of which is magnificent in the extreme, with 
Etna as a background, and the green and golden sea at its feet. The remains of an ancient 
amphitheatre—from which there is a panorama of unrivalled loveliness—reminded us of its 
antiquity, while the road from Taormina to Messina, whither we next went, passing between 
vineyards and olive-groves, suggested the comparison of a terrestrial paradise; for nature, 
prodigal in her gifts, has lavished them here, as though nymph and antique goddess had 
once haunted those shaded gardens, and dwelt in the picturesque habitations which dotted the 
landscape. 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


201 


Messina is a large town, well built, and has the advantages of a very excellent situation. 
Its buildings are spacious, stately, and otherwise magnificent, and its promenade on the 
harbour has a breadth and extent altogether striking—six carriages can easily pass abreast 
of each other. Its granaries, the Loggia, and the cathedral, attract the attention of all 
travellers; and from the environs, which are finely wooded and highly picturesque, Cala¬ 
bria is very distinctly seen. From the time of the Sicilian vespers, which forms a ghastly 
era in its annals, the population has visibly decreased, though the traffic is now on the 
increase. 

From Messina to Palermo—our next destination—we passed, for a considerable distance, 
through the valley of Demona, with which is associated sundry wild and appalling legends, 
which, however, are not suggested by the lovely slopes themselves. Finally, we arrived 
in Palermo—the ancient Panormus —and found much to interest us in this celebrated 
capital. Beggary of the lowest kind is here a characteristic, and the opulent look of the 
city is placed in strong contrast with the general penury of the people. Swarthy African 
features meet us on every hand, and the Marina is crowded with them. Most of the well- 
laid-out streets lead into the great centres of attraction, the Strada Cossaro, and the Strada 
Nuovo; and as the Palermitans are fond of being much out of doors -when the sun is not 
too powerful, these thoroughfares, with their gay crowds and thronging equipages, form 
very attractive pictures, even while the grated windows of the convents rise above all in an 
ominous manner. Although the buildings bear no comparison with those of Italy, there 
are noble palaces, delicious gardens, and churches of great beauty, which will amply repay 
a visit. There are also places of resort and amusement without the town which possess 
features of peculiar and varied attraction, amongst which are the edifices of Saracenic origin, 
where two beautiful sultanas once lived and reigned. Among the villas of the nobility is 
one at La Bagaria, -where the interior architecture of a portion is distorted into the figures 
of women writhing into monsters, aided by a collection whose horrible grotesqueness sug¬ 
gests the fancy that, at one time, these creatures suddenly petrified, and remain proofs of 
some gorgonian power to this very day. The festival of St. Rosalia—the saints, it is 
observed, are always there young and lovely—is one of the gayest in the calendar, and the 
15th of July is an absolute carnival. There are hidden in nooks and corners two speci¬ 
mens of rare and striking architecture, which the artist will do well to embody, if ever so 
hastily, in his sketch-book, and fill up the details at leisure. Contrasts ot style are here more 
violent and glaring than we remarked elsewhere ; but the effect is rather agreeable on-the 
whole, especially to one who is not over-captious, and generally willing to take things as 
they are. 

We sailed thence, with a favourable wind, in one of those beautiful brigantines, 
which English commerce has, in many instances, launched on the Mediterranean, and 
which was bound for Marseilles—the Massilia of the Phocians, who, five hundred years be¬ 
fore the Christian era, had rendered Asia Minor celebrated for her maritime enterprise, and 
the people for their love of adventure—and having hurriedly visited its most remarkable 

3 E 


202 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


localities, admired its stupendous naval resources and its marine capacities, we took the 
road for Avignon, on our way to Lyons, intending to pay a visit to a city once so celebrated 
as having been the seat of the Popedom, during a strife of seventy years between the church 
and the empire; and the absence of which from Rome, Petrarch pathetically bewailed, 
likening this removal or secession of the papal rule to the Babylonish captivity, where those 
. at home bewailed the loss of the glories that had departed, though only for a while, but 
which, without doubt, left the papal states a vast harvest of misfortune to reap. 

Avignon is a very ancient town, and well known in the time of the Romans under the 
name of Avenio. In the reign of Philip the Fair, during the contest for the papal tiara, 
Clement the Fifth transferred the see to this place, and it became entirely transformed, socially 
and politically. The Inquisition was established, but was so jealously watched by France 
as to have attained but a very comparative development. The Popes erected there a mag¬ 
nificent palace, and the u Laura ” of Petrarch was buried in the church of the Cordeliers, 
though the monument exists no longer. Colleges, hospitals, and ecclesiastical edifices were 
built, and exist to this day, through the monachal characteristics of the previous ages. Its 
commerce in wines, brandy, perfumes, silk, wool, &c., is very extensive; and the fountain 
of Vaucluse, which is in the environs, gives a sort of poetic charm to the traditions which 
hallow its chronicles. At the foot of a rock, on the summit of which the ruins of an old 
castle frown, is a vast cavern, suggestive of gloomy grandeur. Within this rocky bosom 
rises the spring which supplies the Sorgues in such an ample manner, as to make the river 
navigable from its very source. The water is of a very astringent quality, and favourable 
to the tanning of skins, as it also aids the mordant in the fixing of rich dyes. 

At Avignon we embarked in a passage-boat, sailing up the Rhone to Lyons, which we 
found to be as agreeable as economic, where, in spite of some dangers attending the journey, 
we arrived in safety; for the Rhone sometimes lashes itself into a fury when the tempests 
come down from the Alps, and many boats and lives are annually lost. 

Of Lyons itself we could write a whole book of its antiquity, its infinite episodes in his¬ 
tory, its rise, and the progress of its greatness, its manufacturing energies, its commercial 
prosperity, its trade in silk and metals, its vast influence on the whole south of France. The 
bravery, the skill, and the intelligence of its artisans, are not less remarkable than have 
been the sanguinary parts they have played in the tragedies of revolution, and the blood 
they have shed in the cause of liberty. Ardent, impetuous, and reckoned among the 
first handicraftsmen and artisans in the world, they have acquired characteristics, and sur¬ 
rounded themselves by qualities of a high and lofty intelligence, which universally command 
respect. 

Built on a tract of land whose skirts are watered by two great rivers, the Saone and the 
Rhone, its mercantile and manufacturing advantages were as irresistible as successful. It 
is a mart for the textile fabrics of Piedmont and the neighbouring states. Its central situa¬ 
tion constitutes it a vast market, or rather exchange, that consolidates those interests which 
extend around it to the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, to the Atlantic, to Paris even, and 


U. iiU//ir 































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


203 


to those provinces that lie on either side of the Jura, as well as of those costlier articles 
with which Geneva so opulently supplies every demand, both home and foreign. 

In Lyons there is less crime, and a larger amount of education, than in any other manu¬ 
facturing city of like importance. It has produced great men, who have played prominent 
parts in their several paths of knowledge, science, art, or in those of a more stormy nature, 
the senate and the battle-field; and her mental glory is commensurate with her position as 
one of the great civilizing centres of the progressive world. Luxury is a quality that does 
not belong to her hardy sons ; for, nursed in toil, and self-dependent, the consequences of 
a plethoric wealth, inherited by descent alone, have not been capable of destroying the mas¬ 
culine force of their character. 

Most manufacturing cities have a certain air of gloom and dust, and are redolent of the 
grime and the sweat of labour; but there is much in its interior to compensate for this, 
while the environs present the most striking contrast. Some portions of the scenery be¬ 
yond the limits of the city possess the most charming and fascinating aspect, among which 
the Isle of Barbe may be mentioned, as one of the great places of resort which the 
Lyonnais love to visit. 

Four bridges cross the Rhone, and ten the Saone. The suburbs are very large, and the 
population have considerably advanced over two hundred thousand. The quays along the 
rivers are capacious and elegant. There are more than fifty public squares, and some fifty 
churches, which are of great beauty. Literary, scientific, and benevolent associations are 
almost limitless, and the great hospital extends its inappreciable benefits to some twelve or 
fifteen thousand people annually. It is said that the looms of Lyons number nearly twenty 
thousand, while the derivable income is between three and four million pounds sterling. 

Having quitted Lyons, and visited St. Etienne, the Birmingham of France, we pro¬ 
ceeded westward by easy stages, seeing all that was notable in our way of hoary city, 
ancient town, venerable village, and ruined chateau, buried deep in the noble recesses of 
localities almost unexplored. We had spent many months on the Continent, and were now 
making our way for England, from whence, in a very few days, we should be once more 
returning home — u home! ” that name which associates in the life of man all that is dearest, 
best, and holiest; and our spirits, rarely at zero, rose in proportion as we crossed Normandy, 
and began to smell the air of the sea. 

It is not my purpose to give any detail of our journey to Ilonfleur, since as we did not 
hurry ourselves, so neither did we spend any sufficient time at any one place, which could 
give me a right to speak of my own observation, whatever might have been the temptation 
to do so. We passed through the Orleanois, Chartres, and traversed the old town of Falaise, 
where the first William was born, and made for Caen, one of the oldest places in Nor¬ 
mandy, hoary and venerable in its quaint and decrepid majesty ; and, finally, we took steam¬ 
boat at Honfleur, and, after a pleasant passage, landed at Southampton water, where we took 
the mail coach for London, and, on the second day, descended at the White Horse, Picca¬ 
dilly, and were driven to the Hummums in Covent Garden, an inn of great note in the very 


204 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


heart of London, and centred in a locality rendered classic by the presences of Johnson, 
Goldsmith, Steele, Addison, Garrick, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and the rest. There we 
remained several days perambulating the streets, and frequenting all the vestiges left of a 
period rendered almost Augustan in English literature. 

It was on a lovely day in the summer, that, on a Whitsunday morning, we embarked on 
board a steamer at London Bridge, amid a gay and expectant throng of holiday-seekers, 
young and old, male and female, intending with them to partake of the gaieties of the 
world—renowned Greenwich Fair—and to go leisurely over the noble u Hospital,” which 
has no superior perhaps in the world. 

Architecturally speaking, it is unrivalled. Its elevation is grand and stately. It spreads 
out to right and left with an air of majestic repose, as though its wings, really and figura¬ 
tively speaking, indicated their protective nature, and that beneath them the storm and 
battle-battered seamen, maimed and otherwise unprovided for, might repose for the rest of 
their days, and, enjoying ease and honour, sink peacefully into the grave, after a life of 
vicissitudes and strife. The mighty pile shadows out the veneration which a grateful nation 
ought to feel towards those whose lot it has been to fight for and defend its rights, or to 
extend, with pretensions less just perhaps, the area of its conquests. 

Seen from the deck of the boat on the river, with the plashing waters as a foreground, 
the wooded hill, with its observatory and crested slopes, undulating to right and left, with 
the clear blue, sunny, bright sky above as a background and relief, with the pretty and 
picturesque town, and the receding flats, with villas and small houses as accessories on 
either hand, and the magnificent structure, the very perfection of art, forming the centre, 
with its blue-coated denizens in groups, or slowly sauntering about, we had not beheld a 
picture more striking, animated, and admirable in every way, perhaps, in the whole course 
of our u travels’ history,” than was here afforded. 

The river was studded with vessels, some descending, and others, heavily laden and 
homeward bound, at anchor, waiting the next tide to bear them to the docks. Boats, 
yachts, fishing smacks, and colliers of all kinds and denominations, were crossing and 
recrossing endlessly. A sea of people crowded the piers and filled the streets, all wending 
towards the fine park, and boat after boat brought down its gay and living cargo to add to 
the restless mass. It was fine weather, and the fair offered unusual attractions. But first 
let us complete our view of the “ Hospital.” 

On a terrace, which stretches above the edge of the river, to the extent of eight hundred 
and fifty-five feet, on three sides of the grand square, and supported by three hundred 
duplicated Doric columns, one hundred and fifteen feet asunder, there lie the vast ranges of 
the stupendous edifice, which was commenced by Webb, son-in-law of Inigo Jones, and 
completed by Sir Cristopher Wren, who here, as in the great city itself, has left so many 
enduring marks of his genius and talent. It was owing to Mary—the wife of William the 
Third—that its use as a royal residence was discontinued, and that it should be devoted to 
a purpose so admirable and worthy of every praise. The seamen of the royal and the 










































THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


205 


merchant navy contribute six shillings a year from their pay towards its maintenance, and 
thus the members of both services have a claim upon it, under circumstances which entitle 
their claims to be granted. There is accommodation for three thousand men, and for more 
than one hundred nurses ; to which are to be added the royal hospital schools, in which, 
it is stated, eight hundred boys are educated, and some five thousand have already passed 
their course. Every arrangement for the comfort and the convenience of the inmates is 
perfect. The care and the attention, the order which prevails in every department of this 
enormous fabric, claim especial attention, and give general satisfaction. There is an air 
of opulence about the dining-room and tables, suggestive of much better material than 
the rank pork, or the immitigable “junk ” of a long cruise ; and the only thing that mars 
the perfect felicity of the whole is, possibly, the monotony of a do-nothing life, and the fact 
of being subject to certain rules, contingent on the condition of being well off. 

After the grim and garrulous old veterans themselves—many of whom are admirable 
hands at “ yarn-spinning ”—the great curiosity of the place is the painted hall, and the 
first aspect one has of it is a very imposing one. It is one hundred and sixty-four feet 
long, fifty-six across, and fifty feet in height. The ceiling, and the hall itself, was painted 
by Sir James Thornhill, the father-in-law of the great Hogarth, and their design and exe¬ 
cution are in excellent accord and masterly in finish, while, between the pilasters, portraits 
of great naval commanders, and paintings of stupendous sea-battles, from the easels of the 
first artists of the day, perpetuate the victories of the English fleet, and serve, in a manner, 
as a chronology of naval actions. In the vestibule are several finely executed casts from 
the monuments of the principal admirals of the nation, while the relics of Nelson, the coat 
he wore at the battle of the Nile, &c., are preserved with a veneration almost religious. I 
may add, with some pride too, that some of the master-pieces of our own immortal West 
adorn the Avails of the hall and chapel. Having rendered due and fitting respect to the 
Hospital, let us iioav proceed, Avith clear consciences, to plunge into the various attractions 
of the “ fair.” 

Greenwich fair is a national festival; one of the “ institutions ”—a saturnalia, Avhere the 
Londoners throw off the rust of their preceding weeks of labour, and proceed, in their OAvn 
Avay, to enjoy themselves to the full of their means, and according to the dictates of their 
imagination. There are resources in abundance, from the gingerbread stall to the u bowl- 
and-dagger ” tragedy of the great u Richardson’s show ”—from the spangled Harlequin and 
Columbine, in front of the gaudy booth, to the “ penny hop ” under canvas—from the 
lordly lion and the mammoth elephant of Wombwell to the industrious fleas-—from the great 
Yorkshire giant, and the “ stout ” lady, weighing some forty stone, to “ Toby,” the 
learned pig, and to that produce of English gin—the race of Tom Thumbs—abortions in 
every way. 

English parks are proverbial for their beauty and their picturesque grace, and that of 
Greemvich does not lack all the charms which can gladden the eye. Its grassy slopes, its 
Avooded undulations, its pleasant Avalks, its commanding heights and shady dells, have all 

3 F 


206 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


their several attractions; and groups amounting to many thousands, gay in all the colours ot 
the rainbow, were pursuing their different modes of enjoyment with an industry and zeal 
that showed no lack of a disposition to make up for lost time. 

The din among the shows was awful—infernal. Trumpet and trombone brayed their 
clamour in the air, and the dull beating of a score of drummers added to the tumult. The 
sad moan of the clarionet was mingled with the shrill scream of the fife, and hoarse, brazen- 
lunged, fustian-jacketed individuals were bawling out the particular attractions of then- 
several u exhibitions.” Next to the u grand dramatic entertainment,” modestly hidden, 
was a u roulette” tent; and further on, passing the gingerbread stalls, where the fascinat¬ 
ing corkscrew-ringletted young lady gave her neck a swan-like bend, and invited you to 
treat the pretty lady on your arm ; next to these came the u sparring ” tent, where a hirsute 
ruffian, bronzed and brawny, begged you to enter and behold the u set-to ” between some 
11 chicken ” and a u game” pigeon. Then came the swings, ground and lofty tumbling, 
Ethiopian serenaders — u white” gentlemen with sooty faces—the conjurer, the contortionist, 
the singer of gross and impure ballads, the toy trays, the ginger-beer stands—an infinity 
of bustle ; to which may be added, the brusque manner of the dense crowd, the rushing, the 
pushing, the elbowing, the oath, the scream, the early stage of intoxication, the alterca¬ 
tion, the fight, and so on to infinity. 

In those saturnalian crowds among the English there is no politeness, no yielding, 
no accommodating gentleness ; but vulgarity and pot-valiant bullying, and obscenity and 
oaths. The feculent sweepings of the human suburbs infest these places, and the busy 
fingers of pick-pockets ply their trade, increasing the confusion, and making what was 
already bad a thousand times worse. 

Sailors, jolly, u happy-go-lucky,” a lass on each arm—whaleboned, padded, and pipe¬ 
clayed soldiers, with their dressy partners—dignified and bridling old pensioners, having 
“ boused their jibs,” are mingled with the motley crowd. The quantity of eatables and 
drinkables devoured is prodigious. The commissariat stands every attack, however, and the 
supply is exhaustless. One great practical joke is the drawing down your back a little 
instrument with a wheel, on the indented cogs of which a bit of thin wood snaps succes¬ 
sively, and you turn round, under the impression that your coat is torn in twain, and see a 
medical student reeling away with a grin as he u takes a sight of you.” Look at yonder 
Hospital man, an old “ Agamemnon ” perhaps ; he is capering under the influence of his 
a nip,” and has just knocked over a basket of oranges, while an ancient lady, in good Tip¬ 
perary, is objurgating his clumsiness. 

Let us walk out of the steaming crowd, and go towards the hill—One-Tree-hill—and, 
gazing -westward, behold a prospect of singular beauty. For miles you may trace the 
broad river, east and west, bearing to and fro the various “ crafts ” which crowd it. 
Wreaths of smoke from the chimneys of the rushing steamers mingle with the air, and, far 
beyond, the great city looms up beneath its now clear canopy—a city of domes and steeples, 
chimneys, masts, and mighty edifices, stretching away in endless succession till they touch 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


207 


the verge of the horizon. There is a chain of youths and maidens now careering down the 
slope, amidst shrill laughter and many screams—on they go—now they stumble, and again 
recover their feet, and, having arrived at the bottom, they stop for breath, and very much 
more slowly walk up again to go down once more. 

Noon is past, and afternoon is come. We go to a tavern which overhangs the river, and 
dine. The dinner is good, the wine indifferent, the charges high, and the waiters are in¬ 
clined to be insolent, because Dewbank makes a sarcastic comment upon a request made to 
“ remember ” them. This mendicancy is the most revolting feature in all the taverns, 
clubs, hotels, and public places of London and its suburbs. The smooth-spoken waiter, who 
can curse a furze into flame, is very mild when the leonine visage of Dewbank scowls upon 
him, and his large bulk is in motion to check his insolence. The Yankee casts a coin on the 
ground, which is fawningly picked up. A smile, almost angelic, is on the thin lips of that 
pale, bloodless face, and we are bowed out with a laboured politeness. Ralph and myself 
had done the “genteel thing” already, as we think it best to “do in Rome as Rome 
does.” 

The afternoon steals into the evening, and dusky shades begin to rise eastward as we 
go back to take one more look at the fair, where the mirth is fast and furious. As the 
shadows deepen, and the purple eve fades away, the fair is beginning to be lighted up 
with pans of charcoal, candles at the stalls, impromptu chandeliers within the tents, while a 
brilliant illumination of powerful tallow lamps are blazing in front of the booths, and the 
turmoil waxes louder and louder ; the music brays and clashes discordantly, the crowd is 
dense, the noisy become obstreperous, the valiant wax quarrelsome, more tights ensue, the 
police are called. The whole scene arrives at an acme of confusion, and begins to have the 
aspect of an orgie ; we find the cheerful day give place to the feverish and irritable frenzy 
of the night, and, tired at last, our pleasure becoming palled, we return to the boat, and 
steer up the river beneath a serene heaven, glittering with all the glory of countless stars, 
in which the solemn moon moves like Diana the huntress among her nymphs. 


208 


THE AMEEICAN IN EUROPE. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Honhoit. 

In the opening chapter, I briefly, and in much haste, glanced at the more salient u sights’’ 
of London. I had now an opportunity of studying this huge aggregation of streets and 
squares, houses and palaces—of boundless opulence and limitless squalor—at larger leisure; 
and undoubtedly it was a study at once wonderful, and pregnant with the most astonishing 
results—to myself. 

In Paris, all is gay and exciting, and every pulse bounds with gladness. In Rome, all is 
stately, grand, antique, and subdued. In Florence, you are poetical, dwelling in a world of 
quiet loveliness. In Naples, it is relaxing, luxurious—all sunshine while pining for balmy 
breezes. In Sicily, a sensuous delight possesses you. In the south of France, Marseilles 
and Lyons, one comes in contact with the seaman, the artisan, the mechanic, and the brawn 
and muscle of active every-day life is in a kind restored. In London, every idea, every 
impression is widely different, and all merge into one infinite, indescribable sentiment—that 
of huge, overwhelming, cyclopian vastness. Venison and turtle, port wine and porter—the 
shops, the parks, the squares, the bridges—these are only fragments of the colossal whole, 
each necessary to the completion of the stupendous structure. 

Bulk, solidity, and business—the business of eating and drinking—the business of the 
docks, the warehouses, and the manufactories, represented by the Custom-house and the 
Exchange—these are other phases of the people of this great city. You traverse squares 
in which the base of the pyramid might lie. You rush along with a human tide through 
streets that count by the mile in length. The palaces are not here and there, but countless 
and immense; while within, the decorations, the gildings, the furniture, the pictures, if not 
arranged and chosen with the best taste, are upon a scale of profusion and grandeur that 
speaks of an opulence as great as it is ostentatious. The significations of a wealthy aristo¬ 
cracy meet you everywhere; but there is, at the same time, a rival aristocracy (because it 
apes the style, and rivals in its expenditure, the lineally descended heirs of lordly houses)— 
and that is the aristocracy of commerce, of the middle and professional classes, who have 
wealth enough to purchase all England, perhaps, at her own price. There is this to be 
admired in this country, where titles are respected, “ blood” adored, the society of the great 
(in name) coveted as a miser covets gold—that all men are eligible to be lifted up to any 
grade, as they are liable to be cast down from it. There is in England no exclusion where 
men can buy. There is no invidious distinction when a man shows a check-book instead 
of a ticket; and the manner in which this is done among themselves shows something more 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


209 


than mere mammon-worship ancl a respect for convention. There is as little of these as 
there is of them among ourselves—perhaps less; for the genius of industry, the intelligence 
of the leading men, sprung from the people, whether artists, men of science, literary men, 
what not, has rendered the old formal conventions of the courtlier days of the Georges— 
when Bath was tabooed to the vulgar, and Brighton basked in the light of a sovereign’s eye 
—a mere tradition, a nullity, an abstraction, having little more existence than in name. If 
any members of the aristocracy are haughty, proud, and distant, they make very little 
impression on the solid sense of the people; their grandeur is pitiful in its reduction to an 
absurdity, because nobody cares for it. “ I care for nobody, if nobody cares for me,” I take 
to be as true a description of an Englishman’s bearing as regards his fellows, as any 
aphorism can go ; while, at the same time, he is polite but not laboured, frank but rarely 
rude; and, though he likes a little “ cant,” Exeter-hall, anti-slavery rubbish, teetotalism 
for the “ masses”—not for himself, as he “ lickers” in moderation—he is, on the whole, as 
perfect a man, mentally and physically, as any nation on the globe can show. 

In England, as generally respected, and as generally interesting even more than loyalty, 
religion, or politics, law bears the bell. Litigation is like a delirium, and those engaged in 
it incite those out of it, till they are bitten by the same mania. Their legal institutions and 
edifices, ecclesiastical and civil, are wealthier than dukedoms and principalities, and are as 
royally lodged in ermine, ashlar walls, and eider-down chairs, or coveted woolsacks. Their 
revenues are enormous, their foundations deep in the constitutional earth, their evils awful 
and heart-rending, as reading the records of old Chancery suits will definitely tell you. 
Look at the Inns of Court, the Temple, grand and imposing, even now in the very heart of 
a “ hurricanous” bustle, seated on a tranquil bank of the Thames, the abode of silence and 
studious delight, as well as of chicanery and extortion. Look at Westminster Hall and 
the Ecclesiastical Courts; count their revenues, if possible, while the salaries of the great 
men are things to walk through the valley of the shadow of death in order to attain. 

Yet they are free and unencumbered, are these mighty people—none more so, not even 
ourselves—only we have no prejudices from of old taken in with our mother’s milk; while 
their formulas of life are a consolidation of prejudices, which, like an old Gothic tower, 
crumbles every day into dust. 

If, however, it is observed that, between the higher and the middle classes, the line of 
demarcation is narrowed to title and “blood” only—though a commoner of “unblemished 
descent,” &c., is held to be as good as a lord—between the higher classes and the peasantry, 
or the artisan and working classes, the distance is illimitable. There is another abject- 
pariah class, which hovers in a shadowy darkness on the confines of Egyptian night, that 
all in turn seem to ignore, save that the labouring tribes have an affinity with them, such 
as exists in that link of organization which binds the animal to the plant. These vegetate 
in ruin and in sin, and between them and society there is a war of extermination to the 
death. They are called the class dangereux ; and, having given them an ill name, like the 
dog in the proverb, they are doomed to the prison, the hulks, and the hangman. This 

3 G 


210 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


characteristic in the midst of the enlightenment, the wealth, the intelligence, the Chris¬ 
tianity, the “ progress” of the nineteenth century in England, is one profoundly significant 
—another proof of the detergent capabilities of wealth ; for a rich returned transport finds 
society will open its arms for him, without being offensively particular ; mothers will angle 
for him, and eldest daughters wed him. 

Where the greatest anti-slavery cry is raised, exists the monstrous inconsistency of pur¬ 
chasing every slave-grown article under the sun. The cotton of the tropics is worn in 
filmy fabrics of the costliest kind by women, who moan in Exeter Hall, or the orthodox 
chapels, at the lecture which paints the black—a man and a brother—working in bondage, 
and sold from wife and children. The picture is spiced up to a pitch of sentimental agony. 
In Ireland, eviction of tenantry; in England, the clearage of whole villages of huts, turning 
more than one “ sweet Auburn” into a ruin, to procure ground for sheep-walks, prove the 
honesty of this sympathy, but prove also how dearly “ cant” is cherished ; and while much is 
said, and well said, of the objection which the American has to permit the negro an equality 
and a status, it is only on “ lionizing” occasions, a parade for subscriptions, a “dodge” to pile 
up contributions for unknown purposes, that a black man in England becomes valued. As 
for constantly associating with him, petting him in the salons , introducing him into their 
families, and so on, it is only a theory to be imagined by a dreamer. As an “ Ethiopian 
serenader” he may pass, assuredly not else. 

The parks of London are superior to anything in the world. The only thing which may 
approach to them, as a vast recreative property of the people, are the antique games and 
the amphitheatres of old. St. James’s Park may be taken as the true type of beauty; 
Hyde Park for vastness ; while the Regent’s Park, circled in its immense extent by stately 
residences, rows of palaces, and a Cockney Mout Blanc—Primrose Hill—combines the 
garden, with its unequalled zoological collection, its superb domain, Caprean retreats 
(lovely villas laid out on enamelled roads, girded by stately trees, and watered by a fine 
canal), with an extent not much less than that of Hyde Park. The trees in these parks 
are glorious specimens of umbrageous foliage, crowning mighty trunks. The walks are 
marvels of neatness, cleanliness, and dryness. Children, with their mothers and nurses, 
flock in them by myriads. Lovers walk, softly whispering, in the dewy eve, by the 
cooling waters. On the Sundays, the artisans and the working classes have them all to 
themselves. East, west, north, and south—for there is the “Victoria,” “ Battersea;” and in 
contemplation as a park, a large waste piece of ground south of the Thames, called “ Ken- 
nington Common,” all surrendered to the people. When shall we, who boast nothing of 
the kind in New York, and but a hybrid tasteless' affair in Boston, be possessed of these! 
With us, land is “ cheap as dirt.” In England, it is worth its scores of guineas per square 
yard. They manage these things much better. 

On the Thames are lovely groves, open to the public; and several which are private, 
by the liberality of their owners, are also at the service of the people on stated occasions. 
Out and in-door amusements abound everywhere. There is no end, no stint, no limit to 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


211 


them. If many ot the latter be objectionable, let it not be forgotten that it is difficult to 
deal out a variety of amusement for more than two millions of people, dwelling in ONE 
TOWN ! 

And again I come to the first impression—magnitude—an overwhelming, even an 
oppressive sense of magnitude! There is a perpetual and infinite reproduction, as well as 
reduplication, of the same things in different forms. Over the houses go flashing engines, 
with their loaded trains. In the streets are drays, carts, coaches, omnibuses, broughams, 
chariots, horsemen, truck, barrow—vehicles of every kind and description man can think 
of, loaded with every produce, with elegant groups, with tipsy sailors, with villainy and 
virtue, with childish purity and youthful innocence, as with astute guilt and hoary pollu¬ 
tion. It is a whirling, rushing, maddening vortex. Up and down the silent “ highway,” 
as it has been aptly called, go loaded and empty barges, and the perpetually emptying 
and refilling steamboat, with their motley passengers. Overhead sails a mighty balloon—• 
two, perhaps, racing in the air! Under the streets, men traverse the great sewers from 
end to end. In the Adelphi-arches crouch the outcasts in crowds, while beneath the 
bridge the shuddering suicide stands, as, perhaps, the wine-warmed seducer gaily gallops 
over in his well-ordered cab. A multitudinous tide, an enormous agglomeration of active 
struggling, of a fierce, angry strife, sounding like a battle, where the combatants have 
only strength left to strike, and only cry at intervals, when they smite or are smitten— 
that is a summary of the picture as a whole. 

It is brilliant at night from a perfect glare of gas in the shops and the streets, so that all 
is clear almost as at noon-day. For cleanliness, order, punctuality, and an admirable 
arrangement for the facilitating of everything, London may be said to surpass all other 
cities, as it does in bulk; and the wonder that the multitudes do not interfere, and get 
entangled with each other, is accounted for by English habits of order and promptitude, 
and their unrivalled system of police. 

One laughs at city processions, u Gog and Magog,” and other singularities, that remind 
us of children at play; but then, what feasts, what balls, what display! The city is a 
large larder. Every man is a gastronomist; and if one desires to eat the best dinner, drink 
the best wine, enjoy the best dessert, and smoke the best cigar, let him go to the city. 
Beneath your feet, in every direction, culinary matters are going on. In their festivals, 
the citizens are irreproachable, and you have only to dread apoplexy or surfeit. Once 
past Temple Bar, you begin to sniff the nidor given forth by meats on the groaning spits. 
The world has sent to meet you there, every delicacy. It is true, that in drinks the} are 
not original, and ice is only beginning to be in general use. Fancy a man chinking hot 
brandy-and-water on a sweltering summer’s day! This was what provoked Ewarts con¬ 
tempt more than anything. In time it will be altered, and the ice of Wenliam Lake 
once established as a marketable commodity, common sense, and an appreciation of a 
luxurious draught, will supersede their horrible system of pouring boiling-hot-water into 

your liquor. 


212 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


The Horse Guards is the emblem of the military institutions of England. In that 
square-looking, strength-suggestive building, lodge the Praetorian Guards of the empire; 
and if they are not quite like their older prototypes, and do not take the election of a ruler 
into their own hands, there have been times when their adherence to this or that side has 
decided a struggle. 

Within those walls reposes the power, which extends its bayonets, its smoking cannon, 
its death-dealing armaments, to the distant Indies—to the isles of the sea—where they keep 
millions of Burmese in slavery, and make war upon the Chinese for refusing to buy opium. 
Here the generals, commanders-in-chief, and soldiers of the empire, confer, receive and 
give orders, and do at times absurdly incredible things. Beside it stands the Admiralty, 
a plainer, but also a fine building, with the air of a veteran that has fought a sea-battle 
against the “bravest of the brave”—with old Van Tromp—for three days in the Channel, 
for instance; and we respect it, hardly knowing why, involuntarily. 

Of the numberless hospitals, museums, picture galleries, exhibitions, and a thousand other 
places, where amusement or instruction, scientific or otherwise, may be gained, I cannot 
now stop to speak, since I have a topic before me of an all-engrossing nature. It was, in 
fact, the approach of the opening of the Great Exhibition of 1851; and I waited in London, 
contrary to my first purpose, (along with Dewbank, Ralph, and a couple of old friends whom 
we met, one from Brunswick and the other from Schloss Bronnen, on the Danube,) for 
several months, in order to watch its erection, its progress, its opening, its success, and 
chiefly to see what sort of a part we should play here in this Olympiad of the nations, and 
in which, on the whole, I took an interest that was second to none I had felt in any part 
of my “travel’s history.” 

History bears testimony to the civilizing influence of the Olympic games; and one reason 
why Greece was the centre where all that was mighty in poetry, great in philosophy, 
magnificent in architecture, faultless in sculpture, unrivalled in her principles as regarded 
the glory, the greatness, and the freedom of every Athenian, must have arisen from the 
fact, that if elder nations gave them their experience, and nations more modern ideas more 
progressive, there -was assembled at these mighty assemblages the mystic Egyptian, the 
star-adoring Chaldean, the subtle Saracen, versed in geometry, the Phoenician, master of 
navigation—scholars from every shore, as well as they who came from the islands of the 
sea, and the birthplace of Archimedes. By consequence, the Greeks knew the geography^ 
the history, the lore, and the sciences of all surrounding people, and profited by them; 
and if this was not the first design and intent of the Olympic games, this is at least what 
resulted from them. As in the metropolitan cities of the world now, we meet with men 
from every clime, speaking every language, and clad in every garb, so in the streets of 
Athens were strangers alike to be met with; and civilization took up her abode there, and 
became there what it never was elsewhere, even in theory, in the course of more than two 
thousand years; though possibly there is a nearer approach to this civilization, so circum¬ 
stantial, so immense in its circle of qualities, and its conquests over brute matter and uncul- 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


213 


tured intelligence, and so emphatic, when it is once formed, as not to he mistaken for either 
a sham or an attempt by a judgment ever so shallow, at the present day. 

In nations whose prosperity, if not dependent on machinery and manufactures, at least 
are remarkable for perfection and extent in these departments, an exhibition of converted 
material, from the highest work of art to the merest cotton thread, when it challenges an 
honourable competition for the increase of commercial intercourse, and for the spread of 
that brotherly communion between people who have so often been foes and rivals in the 
field ot carnage, must be one of those admirable elements of mental greatness which may 
fitly be put side by side with some discovery that has a direct tendency to benefit mankind, 
and be classed with those great results which have made the names of Plato, Bacon, 
Kepler, Xewton, Davy, and the rest, so significant and suggestive. 

Besides the mere acquisition of a fresh stock of knowledge, however large and extensive, 
theoretical or practical, there are results to be counted for beyond triumphs of art or the 
mechanician’s skill. The tentative efforts to revive the decaying prosperity of manufactures 
in France during the Revolution, the Consulate, the Empire, and the Restoration, were quite 
sufficient to show what could be done, and quite successful enough to point out in what 
particular direction the success counted upon would most probably lead. The cultivation 
of the arts of peace naturally leads men to the contemplation of cultivating that peace and 
good-will towards each other, which the nations of the earth, up to the beginning of this last 
century, have been total strangers to. It is a monstrous idea that of turning the genius 
which cultivates the beautiful and the grand, as well as the ornate and the useful, into a source 
from which those engines that shall deal destruction upon the largest scale can be created. 
A mighty floating battery, a fleet of battle-ships, would certainly make a spirit-stirring 
sight, and some there be who have an enthusiasm for them; but a fleet of noble merchant- 
men, laden with the produce of every clime, coining and going, is one far nobler. The 
paraphernalia of an exploding shell, a grenade, a bomb, a fire-ship, may be matchless; 
what are these to the shuttle and the loom—what the steam-gun to the steam-press! It 
is, then, in the close bonds of brotherhood that shall make the artisans of England and 
America and the Continent clasp hands frankly together, that the great triumph of the 
Exhibition will be consummated; and this sight I have seen, this cordiality 1 have wit¬ 
nessed. Foes from of old, on this solemn neutral ground, all met with their hearts in their 
hands, and their hands met as freely, strongly clasping each other, with no bad or envious 
feeling arising from the memory of the past to disturb this admirable compagnonnage. I 
never beheld a sight that moved my heart with a thrill so exquisite. 

The Exhibition became in effect a college for workmen, a school of design, a practical 
lecture, not only upon their own particular branch of labour, but upon all. For to him 
that was unlearned or unread in one art, there were those by, to develop its mysteries, and 
his active mind seized the whole without much effort. The advance of intelligence, un¬ 
spoken, unwritten, and unknown, but brooding deep in the mind, as a silent lake lies hidden 
among mountains, must be incredible, and count its thinkers by hundreds ot thousands. 

3 II 


214 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


Do you think, reader, that six millions of people came to that place and bore away nothing 
with them in their beating brains ? 

I am now writing of the Exhibition, when not a stick or a stone, a pillar or a post, marks 
the spot whereon it stood. Not a fragment is left to mark the site; but yet there were 
fragments—ideal parts—yea, consummate wholes, mighty torsos, or stupendous images of 
creative genius—which, being taken away by the very soul of the gazer, dwell in men’s 
minds, and fructify and produce fruit of the healthiest, soundest, and best. 

The prevailing character of the Exhibition was machinery. Machinery here, there, 
everywhere. It was the ubiquitous principle of all that was collected. Where the machine 
was not, there were the stuffs, the wares, the matchless articles the machine had made. 
Art, in its true sense, bore no proportion to what machinery contributed. Those to whom 
machinery w T as as a strange, occult, incomprehensible, or inappreciable power, witnessed its 
working, saw its matchless regularity, its order, its wonders, and beheld woven tissues 
grow under their eyes—some of the richest dyes, and some as fine as gossamer or a spider’s 
web. They beheld its strength, too—its resistless power: in effect the locomotive is now 
too trite and familiar a thing to be used here as an illustration. 

This Olympiad of artisan industry, of which we can boast as having put every one of 
its grand originals belonging to the dead past far into the shade, is a proof of what can be 
done under friendly rivalry, honourable competition, and a lofty intellectual strife, which 
is destitute of every animus , save that generated by cherished and reciprocated sentiments 
of esteem and respect. 

This magnificent building, which was a realization of the wonders of Oriental story—to 
which some fifteen thousand people contributed of their goods, their manufactures, their 
treasures of art and nature, and where two thousand men a day had been working—was 
certainly one of the most stupendous edifices that the sun of Heaven ever shone upon. Its 
visitors amounted to more than six millions of souls, as I have said. The receipts at the 
doors amounted to half a million sterling! One million additional is calculated to have 
been expended on railways and conveyances of every kind; while the refreshments sold in 
the building are estimated at thirty thousand pounds! 

On the whole, therefore, the results were of the most congratulatory kind. All gave 
and shared the praise. All shared in the honours. What conquest ever collected such 
treasures? What spoil ever amounted to so much? What warlike armies could ever be 
compared to the armies of the artisans? No trophies borne to Rome can for an instant be 
put in competition with the trophies sent from distant climes, willingly trusted to English 
integrity, received back in the same order, without a rumour of breakage or loss being 
heard or spoken of; viewed alike by the child of the pauper and that of the peer! 

It is a thing to be carried down in perpetuity; and it is for this reason, gentle reader, 
that I invite you to follow me through a volume dedicated to a faithful description of the 
Crystal Palace, its origin, history, and its contents; to which the skill of the artist has done 
all that, I venture to hope, can possibly be desired by the most sanguine. 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


215 


I repeat it, at the time I write, all is swept away, and no monument of it is left 
standing. It was an incursion of the modern Goths. It was the triumph of a purse-proud 
aristocracy against the universal voice of the people. Certainly it was not worthy of 
becoming the text of a revolution; though more frivolous things have served to make a 
very sufficient cause for a very pretty quarrel. As the time drew near when the palace 
must finally close, scheme after scheme, each and all tending to its retention, for the 
gratification, the recreation, the pleasure of the people—appeared in the newspapers. For 
a marvel, there was, so to speak, the unanimity of brotherhood; and the object to be served 
by its remaining, was its convertibility into winter gardens, to comprehend a theatre, 
music, scientific, ball, and other rooms. The pretence of those who represented the 
“Woods and Forests,” or some technicality that indicates the immitigable “other party” 
of a novel, was based on a shallow and frivolous ground, which it may be asserted would 
never have stood in their way for a single moment. Down it must come! 1 Delenda est 

Carthago:’ for there were bearded, sapless soldier-men, who would play Cicero here; 
and the middle-class genteelity of Knightsbridge and elsewhere grew potential. With 
very mournful faces the artisans of London, and those who think a little of them and 
theirs—their narrow courts, ill-ventilated, ill-lighted homes—and desire them to have a 
promenade, they went home also, and wrote much and fained more. There were decorous 
observances to be attended to. In vain some shovel-hats grew grave, and said, “ Vanity 
Fair is over—get you gone!” and gone they were, like children who are obliged to leave 
the gaieties of the country fair on a wet afternoon; and much was the moan, and great the 
lament, when the renowed Colonel Sibthorpe “ had his own again.” The “ hivens be his 
bed ! ” as the Irish say. 

Down it came! If its erection was a miracle of human skill, its downfall was surpris¬ 
ingly smart; for, converting weeks to days, and days to hours, and so on, the inverse ratio 
of its departure, as though it never had been, all is at once invisible as by the wave of an 
enchanter’s wand ; and everybody knows that Aladdin’s palace (the comparisons have been 
numerous- enough) cost a great deal of trouble to the poor fellow before it was erected; but 
as for its departure, it was—puff! presto! gone into the infinite. 

I am sitting with a majestic print of the palace exterior, as it was, before me; and 
“ cannot but regret that such things were,” for it is one of the stateliest realizations of a 
poet’s dream—say Shelley’s—one ever looked upon 

I cannot well say, after all, why I should be the advocate of other people’s property. 
It delighted—it astonished me. I suppose I caught the enthusiasm, and leaving OUR OWN 
(we owe for the idea, however) for the present out of sight, let me add here the pendant of 
this marvellous structure. 

Seeing that it was decided to be pulled down—seeing that the artisans of London and 
places circumjacent, far and near, were desirous of possessing a place of physical, 
mental, and moral recreation on that day in which our Saviour “walked through the 
fields,” a company of men have decided that the people shall not be without the means 


216 


THE AMERICAN IN EUROPE. 


of breathing fresh air once a week, and exchanging the shop for the fields, the little room 
for a noble garden, the “graven images” of the plaster-casters for specimens of Michael 
Angelo, Canova, and the rest—shall have something worthy of human beings to bathe the 
wearied mind in, and restore the elasticity of the man. 

I am just about to propose a toast, for it so happens that I have still a leetle “Mononga- 
hela” left; and so, with that, I wish the projectors of the New Crystal Palace of Sydenham 
success. May Fox and Henderson, Paxton, and the whole body corporate, live a thousand 
years, and “die in the circle of their own shadow,”—an Arabic toast, that Bulwer, by- 
the-by, has not yet quoted. 

In closing this volume, therefore, let me invite you all, kind readers, to accompany me 
through the interior of the palace as it stood. It is possible I may point out something 
you have missed. You may also correct me if I be wrong in details regarding that which, 
from the nature of its attractions, drew your attention with more of decision ; and so, until 
we meet in our “ Illustrated Crystal Palace,” I bid you all a cordial Adieu. 


GLASGOW: 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY WILLIAM MACKENZIE, 45 AND 47 HOWARD STREET, 
















■ v ^\ s ** /■ * 5 * ° 'y ^ < *o ;v v / % y * - a 1 \ l.**, 

? y;m(; V .- >> * % of a * v . s : cfi r * „ a * k» 






A>' ^ 

'V J ,j> * 

„ fA?> -i ■ v- x 
•/ f . . ^ *\ o y/ 

'•<p a n „0 s '• * *b 

1 Sp A 4 ^c_ * "fK rv v 

* A < 

& “ ^ v ° ac « ,J o o x 


* ^ \ 

7 . 


<< 

<5 A, = T * vO 1 ’ A, 

„\^ o - 'oA ,* <y ^, ° \c—* y 

<b y o*v> /\ _„. A ^/ Cs" A 0 V 


.C, 

A % 


>- * 0 M 0 * K. 0 ' 

< v A® 

* ^ A- 

V V 

. A A 




% cT ^Skv- ^ 

A > ° * ©0 




,> oo' i 


.., '; ^ v 4 

.-= x°^. -/W0: $ ^ Vfi|A : » 0o ~ ’,W,’ it* *> 0 ®- £’’ 

V 0 ' Y . 0 C ^. *»»■»*' \ X> **. , %. * 3 K ° 0 V 0 ° , * ^ * « 1 ' * \^ s ,./%•. ’ * * N O ’* <0 A/. ' » » . A * V \S V s , 

9‘ <A A C- V AAA'' > A °i A- v' * > .O^ <.**<>/• *0 V A . 




. -«. ..^s- - _ v' '>-' ue _i v ^ V* v 

** v A N ^0 v < 'v 9 *.+ A \^,.s' V / 'o.jx^'a 

o° v / /::;- % ^ o°^ ^ 

\N *. --' ^ . ' JE '- i> A 



& « ^ » * s ^ 


D 




0^ : ^ v^ = 

- q5 

^ kv ^ N .. w 

.• , s "/ ^ ,O v ^'<* 0 , 'C' 

V -w .-j r^ ■<» X 



• -e^ c> 

'S', <o 





' .0 


•»• „ x 




r ' 'S .V) 

■■: - <f 


, + . ^ ^ %*§&#'* f ^ ■>/•.* ,x ^ e Ar:^^ a' 

<■ y o*x^ A O, -V, > >C ^ ' o „ v * A 3 *t, .• A v 


H V 








p* i.'**, *b> " v > 

k #.^.^-. V v * v * 

kV --- % %’ 

^ '•''- ,-vi S,* *1 ^f> ,t ,0 V ■ 

t: '*b o N . &~x - •: A > : ^ 0 * 





*• ^ ,«-■ 

* a , A » 

X * 1 X V V S s * * /- 

"■ x V 


> bo x ■ ; - 

^ ; ; ,> . ^ 

\X* ^ -•^ > '*^^v * 

> A- v ^ - fcf 

> v o is «ar xtf «- 

^ 

'd- 

vO 







A •-’ ^ b ^ ■* „V 

A ^ ^ <* 

o s v j; ., -f -j 







,A Y . 

- :. ;.. , “ aV «p 0 

■•.a * # V * 

4 C ^ / A> 

A’ 

y t» (2 <$» ^ ^ \ S Ci ■* X ' Jg ■ ' ^ 4 “A «. --3 c 3 




* Vi ^ 


y * 0 « V. 


*. >z*mws ^ ^ vll' 

^/- ' ‘ ' A' v I ft 

\°®<. 




d' ^ V . V 

7 oN , A' 




' .0- 




^o x 

^ S *%&*.** ^ . Vi - 

O </•* .\X X 

aV d> 

a ^ *y + \ ''V ^ 'V ^ 

y <» 4 X ■** A V 0 N t 'A 4 * N s <0 v ,. <b y 04x' A •? 7 /‘ V / 0 T' aO V 

^ A ^ r 0- V* ^,*-1 ^p ^ */o. 




o' a X ^ 

* « I A A X 4 * 3 N o ’ 

,,o a \ v aITL^ ^ , 

v ^ . A 0 <Sl ^ 


A» V * 0 T y \ ,* 




^ v 1 


vi t 0 


X°®<. 


\° c b 

N V ^ kV 

^ y * .,"s 0 °* ,o° c o *-a' \a ^ ^ 

u v'a;^,/^^ ' ,o v a.a'c. v v 

<* -V. * A --- A 4 A r ,• A, •- o. ^ v. * y 



aV cT>. 


S//%° Ar. ,<V 
.-X A 



^ A- 

A ^ ' " " a c* V 

.0 .p. A* ^ .&,/•' ^ AS ^ 

-. ,mi - x>. o - 


kV 





A®' * *r~ +*■ Jp r rv*5>J» 




ui 4 _ ^Y/, •>_ s .. 

: ^i'H x 

A3&&K.V-'. '■ , ■' ' 

'U*WK:*•&*!••. Y lfcv. • -H. X " 

. si f .' \ •: v \ ’ :■ 'V, 

. £ i&t £<v to- ■■>•-- t !s ■ 




V ..."ill!" 


' « ' I' 


0 020 677 598 1 


*«i v .'u :; i; 


*V ,*••«'( mi-...» : 
'! * i i ' ■Vi 1 mV *«' 4 ’ *«» 

i <■ V ** 1 'Hit i>ii< 


11 u - ;i ’“- ;l ii; 
. ; *v • • 't(U« ' *n»( 

• ’:>, su i ''iii " il 

'' ‘ * . v , i M , . * 

' 1 * • ;tn « ,: t : ; ■ , S * \ 
Mil i'*l 


'■ : •‘ * i ’ i 1 » \ . 

■ 

ii ; ii \-u. 

,if}, i<lit III 11 
? ,«»Ut “*l» Hljt - 
\ ,'Hli .Mj-ii - Ujitii 

I , . < k| t J » i i I I ; III 

>'i. \\V. . .!*'. ' 


i I , . t t 1 I I i i i . ! 


•■'. ■■■■ ..i\ t ■ i: ?! 

;. ../Hk tin. ... i, mm- 

<|<. M . i i ■ “ i<. .ini •’ <: 1 ■ 

• (< j '.•**(• i , * " • . 'Hi. -li' 

v. "'V 1 ', 

U .ii,I ‘ I > " * i « "Ml 'lll- 

11 ♦ . i i •' l!l m“‘ • 1 'Mi • : ifl- 


%m\X: 


'«i ,<M i <u 

ill .ill . if 
‘-.it* ;i .i!« i 
'"HI • «»U'.‘ 
•Hi if afih 


i i i .'Mil <f‘« ' 1 ‘MM 11 f u H 

,: M ,.| lit Mt i . .(••*» .*»!'.* .iii;. 

‘>11 in I * "il nil I ‘It:: 

‘ i. ;,<UU■■..( if.-Mii . ■; ■ " 

' 

ji i"i\i ftf.V 'h •}• 



...I. ‘iii/ln-, .<. 11: •'< 1 ^ • .1(1 *‘".,1 1 

i llll: Mill 1 .i.11|i*. - ...; ;* ViVi .".il 1 1 

fe:^ 

‘ :'.H. ..... i iU 


i n ’.y,'. ..j'.-; .,j'. 

-mi, "'ll.11." ..... 

!!!!'! <• '.V-'v.iV.' 

iii I '/;* ll*f -I’M » : M r *_,«> 



V, ■■ i -■ ..iii-ilil!-! 1 *r‘ 1 i v.iti ''I" <h 

1 1 * III j I f , ! {I * ■-! • M I \<l 1.A A'• 1 ''•( M M (• It 1 . ,; , , I III; (i i . ) , }H I /li},* •»i > 

•AW.'?Iii /!!. 1 ,w :■ j*'«/»/ uitt ' m /":;. 1 ; :m'■ i 111 : - 


In. • III! ■'}}}:■ Wr,;i'iII vjV*'•*<(< -. 1 . V-I.i :,-»<*" V ,"" 1 .i •-nlV. .•*'•,• .. 




it;///'- v ' : • 1 ili|, 'iii -•Mif f.-'; . 1 *■ 

tin in ft) I »*>: (Mi ‘ f H M ;>>»». Hi) -Ml', Mu •' MH m 

,'fth nu ii r in *.m ji» ,r •i»»> • i hi, - iUtA(ir,i- ivA: -m' : -'"- 

, iiilV'- •«*» ' ’ (\» i' 1 1 i I '-’//.iVlU'. - 1 * HI i i f/Iji 

.illll ,/,V f / up. ’ - ■,. 1 ! ,i‘jn m»i »»ji, - hjV. 

I i!. II I !!?»»jin: ” h v’iili- (MI. f r | i i iii i, i 

f!: u f ilv. i ii I'fih- I '*• iu i < (ir i. n i i • • iu i . i. ii/!- ,,. 



nl‘ 11 ,-: I 

•Ml. i ■ i , II 

»t ■ ■ ■ t * i 1 ii 

tini 

■’■'Hr. 

'Mill Mil 
[IiH ■ ■ Hill 






/ fMi'V;. .. -r // 

u r fV r /•*>’. lf< 

'v>L 4 ty<ii r”;; 

;:; V////»/;///•? . 


■ ,, ■ : 1 , 1 v,.,,•> - •••. "-ii," 

. !'< Vi , . Mt; . tf , !/ ,V. \ ‘ ■' .m .. ,, i : //i ' • " •; m ;' A.. ../'' h •’ 

. 

.rirV/f -if. 'MM 1 / " -ffl /" 

'' ... >, '.-/M , . I 

' 



















